


we're just trying to find some color

by peraltiaghoe



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Colors, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Jake Peralta, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, a;lskdfja why was that already a tag i'm yelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peraltiaghoe/pseuds/peraltiaghoe
Summary: jake's finally starting to accept his feelings for amy when she shares some big news with the squad: she and teddy just saw their first color.cue jake's messy internal dialogue, detective-terrible-detective's not so terrible detecting, and things never going as planned—a soulmate au where colors become visible when you feel certain emotions for your soulmatealso ACAB
Relationships: Jake Peralta & Amy Santiago, Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 214
Kudos: 363





	1. gray (in this black and white world)

**Author's Note:**

> work title and all chapter titles from The Maine's Color. originally was going to be a submission for that the maine // black & white collection i'm doing, but then it spun out of control and is at 21k total with a bit more to be finished, but dis is my current baby hello, hope you enjoy. 
> 
> if anybody has any questions about depth i AM still working on it and i will be addressing that in the first comment on this fic a;sldkfa

Jake pulls on his gray jeans, shuffling through his closet in search of the gray plaid shirt, his favorite one, the soft one with the thicker black threads. He buttons it over his gray undershirt, narrowly avoiding tripping over his gray comforter, which is bunched up on the gray carpet from where he’d rolled out of his gray bed. 

He chances a glance at his reflection, his pale gray eyes widening at the dark gray circles underneath them. A long, drawn out groan ripples from his already sore throat as he runs his fingers through his gray hair, trying helplessly to restore some sort of structure to it—but he’s already late, and he doesn’t have time for this. 

The sky looks grayer than usual as he drags himself out the door. Darker gray, perhaps. It’s probably going to storm, the gray cherry on top of his stupid, gray day. 

See, most days, Jake Peralta didn’t mind only seeing shades of gray. 

Granted, most days he also isn’t hungover as hell, the grays all swirling into dizzy blackholes, sucking up every bit of the already limited energy that he has in the morning. Most days, the gray doesn’t seem like it's taunting him. 

Today isn’t most days. 

Today, the gray is calling his name. From every surface, from every corner, from every curve and loop and crevice, the gray mocks him. All he can see is gray, and all he will ever see is gray, but _she_... 

Well, she saw her first color. 

She saw her first color, and her boyfriend was overjoyed. She saw her first color, and she was _happy._ She saw her first color, and all he can see is gray. 

He barely looks up from the ground as he walks to work, hoping the chill in the air will quell the turning in his stomach. He stops at the vendor outside the precinct to grab coffee, because late or not, he isn’t going to make it through this day (or this throbbing headache) without caffeine. He’s always late anyway. She’s the only person who ever commented on it these days, and she was probably going to be too busy seeing colors to even notice him walking in. 

He couldn’t be sure, considering he’d never actually _seen_ a color, but he’s pretty certain that gray is the only one that would accurately describe how he’s feeling, anyway. So that’s fitting, at least. 

He likes her. Or, he doesn’t know, he’s _starting to_ , maybe. He’s pretty sure that he likes her. He glares at the back of her pretty, gray head as he steps off of the elevator. Stupid Amy. Stupid, gray Amy and her stupid—

Jake’s breath hitches in his throat, his cup slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor with a _smack_ and a _slosh_. There’s coffee on his leg, and all over the floor, and it burns, and it—fuck, it burns—but he doesn’t even have the capacity to care. 

Amy is looking at him, her eyebrows drawn together. He blinks, shaking his head, as if that would correct whatever trick his mind is playing on him. But it isn’t a trick, and he’s fairly certain that he couldn’t imagine something like this even if he tried. 

Amy’s lips press together, the corners turning down into a sort of frown at what she’d probably describe as his _antics_. He blinks furiously, trying to tear his attention away from her mouth, but his eyes just keep flickering back. 

If gray isn’t taunting him, the world definitely is. 

Because he doesn’t know what color Amy’s lips are… 

But that _definitely_ isn’t gray.


	2. red (always try to learn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wtf is jake's deal anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me not sticking to the schedule that i just made for myself like two days ago? more likely than you think
> 
> sorry tiff

Amy’s lips are red. 

He isn’t sure what that means, but he’s sure that his chest had seized up the moment he saw that brilliant color on the lips that he’d already found, just, like, a _little_ distracting (like, even when they were _gray)_. 

So. 

That happened. 

That happened, and she scrunched her eyebrows up at him in that cute way that she did sometimes, and his voice was stuck in his throat when she asked if he was okay. His _uh, yeah, I, uhm… good—great_ response was completely see-through, but he couldn’t force himself to be any more convincing when his knees were that shaky. So he hesitated awkwardly for a moment, floundering under her gaze, her distracting lips pursed at him, and then he just turned on his heel and _walked away_. 

Yep! He just! Walked away! 

Into the evidence lockup, because _that’s_ a normal thing to do in the middle of a conversation after abruptly causing a huge scene first thing in the morning. He leaves his puddle of coffee and his broken cup on the floor and walks away without another word, hoping with everything in him that she doesn’t follow him. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when thirty seconds go by and the door doesn't open behind him. He needs to—what, to think, maybe? He isn’t sure, but whatever he needs to do, he can’t do it with her lips in his line of sight. 

First thing’s first: what color _was_ that? Because it definitely _wasn’t_ gray.

He glances around the room, looking for another hint of the color somewhere, but there’s nothing in his line of sight that varies from the range of grays that he normally sees. He glances at the door, fidgeting in his place, wondering if he’d missed anything else with that color in his rush to get away from Amy and her lips. 

His eyebrows furrow as he tries to think through his next move. He can’t traipse back out into the bullpen like everything is normal. He can’t go out in search of more of the color, because he’d just be assaulted with the sight of Amy’s lips, and as hard as it is for him to get a coherent thought out now, it would be _impossible_ in front of her. 

His phone. _Of course_. 

He holds his breath as he types in _colors_ , a short and sweet description of what he’s looking for. Sure enough, the first images that pop up on his google search are riddled with pops of the new color. 

Red. 

Amy’s lips are red. 

He leans back against the wall, sinking to the floor and clutching his phone to his chest. He shakes his head, then looks back down at the screen. He clicks the first image, his eyes flickering amongst the gray circles with names underneath them, then focusing back to the only color he can actually see. Red. 

This is bad. This is _so_ bad. 

He flicks back out of the image, typing _soulmate color red_ and waiting for the page to load. He scrolls through an overwhelming wheel of red tones, words like pink and burgundy getting jumbled amongst the shades of red, and god, he never knew there were _this many colors_. He’d only discovered one color, but there are so many _shades_. 

Finally, down at the bottom of the page, he finds what he's looking for. 

And yeah. Yep, that checks. 

Red, the color often associated with anger. See also: frustration, impatience, _jealousy_. 

Sometimes the color becomes visible immediately, sometimes the effect is delayed. And sometimes, the color becomes visible the first time you feel one of those emotions for your soulmate. 

Other times, it waits until you’ve known them for five years and have felt every emotion under the sun for them, then conveniently jumps out, like, the same day they start seeing colors with _someone else._

Sometimes that happens. 

He groans quietly, allowing his phone to fall off of his lap and clatter onto the floor. His head tips back against the wall with a quiet _thud_. He reaches up to knead his temples with the pads of his thumbs. 

He knew there was _something_. He knew he had been developing feelings for Amy, but he didn’t think it was… he didn’t think it was _this_. What even _is_ this? She couldn’t, like, be his _soulmate,_ right? 

She’s in a committed relationship. She held Teddy’s hand while she gushed about having seen her first color just the night before. Teddy had seen his first color, too. She _had_ a soulmate. So if he’s seeing colors… If he’s seeing colors for _her…_ What does that mean for him? 

Maybe he just has things mixed up. Maybe he isn’t seeing colors for her. Maybe… Maybe he’s just getting confused because he saw the first color _on_ her. Yeah, he has these residual feelings and he saw the first color on her, so it makes sense that his mind made the leap to _it’s about Amy._ Maybe he _wants_ it to be about Amy, but that makes no sense at all. 

And then he’s thinking about her lips again and _god_ , she’s so pretty and how is he ever going to pay attention to anything but her lips ever again if they’re that color and could he ask her to wear a different, less distracting lipstick? Like, perhaps in a color that he can’t see yet? Because—

Wait. 

He can’t ask her to wear a different color lipstick, because then he’d have to tell her that he can see her lip color. And if she knows he can see her lip color, she’ll know that he’s fallen for his soulmate. And if she knows that he’s fallen for his soulmate, she’ll inevitably want to know who his soulmate is. And what’s he supposed to say? 

_Oh, I don’t know, you, maybe?_

But back to the problem at hand, maybe it _isn’t_ her. Maybe somebody else prompted his first color to appear. There had to be somebody else he’d felt a strong sense of anger toward in the last twenty-four hours, right? Or frustration, or jealousy, or some other sort of emotion rooted in anger. There _had to be_. 

He slides further down, closer to the floor, an exasperated groan escaping him with the movement because _no_. He retraced every thought and action for the past three days and it _has_ to be Amy. He didn’t so much as have a frustrated moment while driving, even. 

The _only_ time he felt any of those emotions was the night before, sitting across the table from Amy while she detailed what seeing her first color was like. 

He was never going to step in and do anything to threaten her relationship with Teddy. She was happy, and he was happy for her. But what started as a little inkling of feelings was quickly developing into something with a much better foothold in his heart, and he was growing more aware of those undeniable feelings as the days went on. So while he wasn’t going to do anything to step in her way when it came to Teddy, he had been growing more hopeful that things would fizzle on their own. 

Apparently the world had other plans, because things seemed better than ever when Amy gushed that she’d finally seen a color and it was everything she hoped it would be and more. Teddy’s smile was warm and his eyes were adoring and Jake could have gagged on the spot because why would she see colors with _him?_ With Teddy Wells? Boring Teddy Wells with his stupid pilsners and his stupid love of all things boring. He probably _loved_ seeing only shades of gray. He probably wasn’t excited at all when he saw red—probably couldn’t have cared less about the color making Amy’s lips even more distracting.

The feeling swells inside of him again. _Jealousy._ It’s such a gross feeling, one that he wants so badly to shove away, but there’s no denying it. He was jealous last night, and he’s just as jealous now. 

Objectively, Jake knows it’s wrong. It’s wrong for him to be jealous over her. He knows Amy isn’t some object for him or Teddy to stake claim over, but that doesn’t make the feeling fade away. In fact, it’s practically raging inside of him, the same disgusting jealousy that prompted him to smile bitterly and make a toast to the happy couple the night before. 

A toast was a reason to drink. 

And then, for good measure, he ordered another drink. And another. And another. 

He thought for sure that his seventh drink would be the one to wash the ridiculous envy out of his brain, but his seventh drink just saw him to the sidewalk, where he begrudgingly watched Amy laughing in the passenger seat of Teddy’s car as they pulled away. Then he was hailing a cab home by himself, watching the gray blurs out the window, the speckles of white light swirling into the black of the night and _fuck_ , he felt sick, but it had nothing to do with how much he’d had to drink. 

It had everything to do with those pesky feelings for his partner. His smart, funny, particular partner. _He_ made her do that cute thing where she scrunched up her nose when she laughed, but she saw her first color with _Teddy._

And by this point, he was too drunk to pretend he wasn’t feeling it, so by the time he got home he was outright sulking. He’d felt little pangs of jealousy here and there, watching Amy leave Shaw’s with Teddy’s arm around her, or the time Teddy caught a ride back from CopCon on their bus and she leaned her head on his shoulder for the last half of the ride. 

This wasn’t pangs. This was a full blown, steady stream of jealous thoughts that he just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. He clenched his jaw at the thought of Amy having colorful dreams next to Teddy, while he watched what he’s sure would be gray images of her flashing behind his sleepy eyelids. 

It was never this bad. His longing for her was usually limited to isolated incidents. It would hit him like a train when they were alone in the briefing room, her eyebrows pinched together in focus as she pored over a case file in the late hours of the night. When she’d notice him having a particularly hard day and disappear, only to return twenty minutes later with his exact coffee order, the feeling flared inside of him. She could be just as sweet as the coffee on his tongue when she wanted to be, and she stole little pieces of him each time she noticed him like that. She’d play into a joke with him, her laughter floating around him as they riffed off of each other, and it cemented her place in his heart each time it happened. He used to think it was just _friends_. They were just friends. It was normal for her to be on his mind so much. They’re _friends_. They’re partners. 

But he never thought about his other friends quite as much as her. And he definitely didn’t think about other people he was partnered with to that extent. And then there’s the whole _being super attracted to her_ thing… 

So he was starting to think that _maybe_ he was developing feelings for her. 

But he didn’t think he was going to start _seeing colors._

On a normal day, he’d be kind of excited, if not a little surprised. He has feelings for her and they started seeing colors at the same time. Sure, it would be jolting, but they could adjust to that new dynamic. They’re _soulmates_. 

Except that they aren’t. Because she’s dating Teddy, and Teddy’s seeing colors with her, so she and _Teddy_ are soulmates, which leaves Jake as her… 

Her _what?_

People don’t have two soulmates. 

“Peralta, what are you—” Holt pauses in the doorway, tilting his head at Jake’s whole crumpled on the floor situation. “Are you… feeling well?” 

Jake shakes his head, his eyes drawn to the one red pin on Holt’s uniform. “No, I, uhm…” He trails off, shaking his head and slowly pushing himself up to stand on weak knees. “No.” 

Holt appraises him slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looks at him. He must look as sick as he feels, because Holt nods one time, then takes a step back. “Take the day off. Call me tomorrow with an update if you are still unwell. Otherwise, I expect you will be on time tomorrow.” 

Jake nods, his voice raspy. “Yes, sir.” 

He walks past Holt and back into the bullpen, his eyes trained on the only red thing he currently cares about. Her lips are pulled into a sort of half-pout, half-frown. He stares for a second too long, then shakes his head. He swallows thickly, then turns and walks into the stairwell. He can’t wait in there with her for the elevator. 

He chuckles humorlessly when he steps onto the street. The first red thing that faces him there is a stop sign. Funny that stop signs would be red, considering that all he really wants is to stop _seeing_ red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clarify some things about the system! each color is directly related to an emotion that you feel toward your soulmate. it doesn't necessarily appear the first time you feel the emotion for them—as is the case for jake and amy. while jake can see amy's red lipstick, he _can't_ see her natural lip color. all skin tones/hair colors/eye colors/etc. are not visible even when their corresponding color is unlocked. so when they can see blue, they still can't see blue eyes, but they _could_ see blue colored contacts. 
> 
> i think that's all i have to explain right now? at the end of each chapter, i'll put the corresponding emotions for the color in case it hadn't been clear. ¨̮ 
> 
> so:
> 
> red - anger/frustration/jealousy


	3. green (everything will be alright)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw guns violence blood and ouchies
> 
> ¨̮

Jake had done more reading in the past two months than he had done throughout the entire rest of his life. Books, articles, blogs—anything he could find about soulmates. 

This doesn’t happen to people. There are _no_ recorded cases of someone having two different soulmates. There are no recorded cases of two different people seeing colors with the same person. Soulmates come in pairs, not threes. Every time. No exceptions. 

Until now. 

He’s an anomaly. 

_He_ is the first case. 

He is in love with Amy Santiago. 

He’s in love with Amy Santiago, and it doesn’t matter at all. 

If he repeats it enough, maybe it will finally start to make sense. 

He’s still coming to terms with it, even two months later. Since there are no recorded cases of this ever happening, he’s not entirely sure what it means for him. It’s possible, he thinks, that maybe his seeing red actually wasn’t about Amy at all. He hasn’t figured out who the color _is_ for, if it’s not for her, but it’s a thought that’s been floating around his head. 

Or, alternatively, it _is_ for her. And he _is_ in love with her (which, honestly, not that shocking to him, considering the thoughts and the attraction and the—just, everything about her), and she’s his soulmate, but her soulmate isn’t him. Which would leave him… soulmate-less? He thinks that’s what that would mean. Amy and Teddy are soulmates, and Jake is just some weird third wheel to their soulmate-ism. He’s fairly certain he can’t comfortably reveal that to anyone, _least of all_ Amy. 

So he sucks it up and he keeps his mouth shut—except for when she wears red lipstick, which has left his mouth hanging open for a few seconds the first time he sees it every single day that she’s worn it so far. He isn’t sure what happens from here, and he isn’t sure that he really wants to think about it. 

He’s an anomaly, and he’s waiting to see exactly what will happen to him now. The thought of being alone for the rest of his life while Teddy spends the rest of his life with Amy is too much for him to take on, so he shoves it away each time it creeps up on him. And for two months, he doesn’t see any other colors at all. Just when he’s thinking that maybe the red really _was_ just a fluke—like, is Amy seeing more colors? He can’t exactly casually ask her, can he?—he’s proven exactly how wrong he is. 

They’re out working a case. It’s a simple case, an open and shut bodega robbery. They leave the bodega with a notebook full of witness statements, a list of likely suspects, and a plan for how to proceed the next day. They’re joking about how simple it was, betting on which suspect they think is the one who did it, throwing around different theories on exactly how it all went down. It’s ridiculous— _she’s_ ridiculous, and she’s terrible at a Long Island accent, and his laughter in the passenger seat only encourages her. 

His laughter is interrupted by the radio. 

_10/30 at the corner of Bergen and 3rd. The suspect is armed. I repeat, 10/30 at Bergen and 3rd and the suspect is armed. Does anyone copy?_

“We’re right here,” Amy immediately responds, all hints of laughter gone in favor of professionalism as she informs dispatch of their identifying information. 

“We’re a few blocks away, we’ll head down for backup,” another voice replies, continuing with their own numbers. 

Amy turns on the sirens and peels toward the intersection. 

“What’s over there? A gas station?” He’s looking out the window as he speaks. The red lipstick isn’t quite as distracting as it was two months ago, but he still has to dedicate a bit of thought to not staring at it for too long. She doesn’t wear it quite as often as she did that first week, so it always catches him by surprise when the usual gray is replaced by the pop of bright red—and with it being the only color that he’s secretly seeing… It really catches his attention. It’s _not_ that he’s just always staring at her mouth, okay? He’s not, like, weird. It’s still just so new for him, and staring at anything red for too long just brings up unwelcome thoughts, so he spends as much time _not_ looking at red as he possibly can. 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

Now isn’t the time for unwelcome thoughts. There’s a short man in what looks like a black hoodie heading straight for them when they turn the corner. As soon as he sees them, he whips in another direction, heading away from them as quickly as possible. Amy heads straight for him, the car screeching to a halt as she throws it in park. They both rush out of the car, fully prepared for an on-foot pursuit. 

This guy _delivers_. He runs fast, and he runs _far_. He weaves in and out of all possible obstacles, trying his best to lose them, but they tail him despite his best efforts. 

Finally, when he’s approaching an evident dead-end, when Jake’s breath is just about entirely gone, when he’s covered in a layer of sweat despite the even temperature outside, they think they finally have him. 

Except that the suspect is armed. 

And when the end is finally in sight after a gruelling mile-and-a-half long chase, facts like _the suspect is armed_ might slip one’s mind for a vital second. _Especially_ when the weapon isn’t visible. And normally, they’d be on it. They’d see it, they’d anticipate the movement, _something_. But they were both so exhausted. 

“NYPD, freeze, put your hands on your—”

Amy’s voice rings out. She glances over at Jake while she’s talking, a quick confirmation that he’s okay, and that quick glance split her attention enough that she didn’t catch the movement. He barely sees it—the glint of light off of the gun that their perp is pulling out of his jacket. 

“Santiago, gun, he’s—” Jake shouts, but things are happening so quickly. The perp spins and the gun is aimed right at her and Jake dives without a thought. He tackles her to the ground, and it isn’t graceful at all. He barrelled all of his weight straight at her, all thoughtless action in the face of a gun pointed at her. The sound of the gunshot pierces his ears just as he crashes into her. They fall, and they tumble, and they skid to a stop a few feet from where they were standing. He hits his head on the ground, and he thinks it’s just grass, but there’s a sudden, sharp pain. His eyes squeeze shut instinctively, but her head is on his chest, and he’s clutching at her, speaking muted words that he can’t really hear over the ringing in his ears. 

“Ames, are you okay?” 

She’s clutching him back, and he can’t hear her voice, but he thinks her tight grip means something good. God, his head hurts. He opens his eyes, and the second he does, the breath is knocked right out of him. 

Green. 

The grass is green. He _thinks_ the grass is green, because green corresponds with fear and/or pain, and those are the emotions that would most logically make sense in this scenario. He closed his eyes, and the only color he could see was red, and he opened them, and the grass for as far as he can see is no longer gray. He’s in a sea of green, and the plants are all green, the trees, and the ground, and the _world_ , as far as he can tell—it’s all green. He can’t breathe. 

“Jake?” Amy asks, her voice finally getting through to him, snapping him out of his own head. 

He blinks rapidly, shaking his head, but everything’s just a swirl of Amy’s red lips and this new color, little sparkles of light breaking up his vision that he keeps trying to blink away, and he has so many questions—is she okay, where is the perp, why is the grass so bright, why does his head hurt so bad?

“Shit,” she murmurs. He watches her swallow. 

“I’m okay,” he chokes out. His voice sounds strange to him. Strangled, or maybe far away. His head _hurts_. There’s a weird, metallic taste in his mouth. The air is thick, and it’s cold, and every breath tastes so strange. 

She shakes her head. “The grass is—” Her breath comes out in a little huff, her words halting. “Jake—”

“Are you okay?” He repeats his earlier question. 

Her voice is weak. “You’re—Blood is, uh—it’s, it’s red—you’re bleeding.” 

That can’t be right, because he definitely would have noticed if he was bleeding. He looks down, and sure enough, she’s right. Blood _is_ red. He _is_ bleeding. He’s bleeding a lot. On his side, his gray shirt is soaked through, and first he thinks it’s black, but it’s just _so much red._

“Let me,” she begins, then stops again, her hands moving even when her lips stop. He lays back on the grass, the green grass, and it’s soft, and his head hurts, and he’s looking at her lips. They’re red like his blood, and he bets they’re soft like the grass, and fuck, his head hurts. 

Maybe this is why, he idly thinks. Maybe Amy has two soulmates because the world knew that he wasn’t going to make it. 

He can make peace with that. She has Teddy because she couldn’t keep him. He’s in love with Amy Santiago. He’s going to die, but she won’t be alone. Oddly enough, it makes him feel better when the edges of his vision start fading to black. He can’t hear her when she’s speaking into the radio, but he’s watching her lips move. 

He wants to tell her. He wants to reach up and touch her face, tell her he sees it all, too. The green, the red, the colors, _her_. That he loves her. He thinks he loves her. 

But he doesn’t want to drop that bomb and then leave her. It isn’t fair to do that to her just on the off chance that she _might_ have similar feelings. He wants to hear her say those words to him, but not badly enough that he’d be so selfish. It would do her no good to know about his feelings now. 

The colors feel like they’re fading away. His vision is so blurry when he can manage to keep his eyes open, but it gets harder by the second. He’s going to die. 

_He’s going to die._

She tosses the radio to the side and returns to unbuttoning his shirt, peeling one sleeve off, gasping at the blood, _so much blood_ , he thinks she says. It hurts, and he’s wincing, but he’s trying to keep his eyes on her face. He wants to hear her voice, but he just can’t quite make it out. His ears are ringing so loud. He shakes his head, because he doesn’t want to hear the ringing, he wants to hear Amy. Her fingers still his face. He closes his eyes at the contact. Her hands are clammy—sweat from the chase, or maybe his blood, he’s not sure—but she’s touching his face, and it feels so nice. 

She taps his face twice, lightly, but enough to startle him. His eyes snap open. He struggles to focus on her face, but the red lipstick catches his attention enough that he slowly manages. She’s speaking again, but her lips are moving too fast, he can’t understand.

“Slow,” he whispers. His breath is ragged, and it burns his throat. “Ames—”

He’s pretty sure that she’s saying his name. She looks scared. He doesn’t want her to be scared. He reaches for her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist and squeezing gently. Her fingers are in his hair, and he’s closing his eyes again. She taps against his cheek again. He blinks up at her, a soft smile on his lips. 

Amy Santiago is going to be the last thing he sees. 

He doesn’t feel afraid when his eyes slip shut again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> green - fear, pain


	4. orange (just for tonight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jake does not die, but he kind of wishes he did 
> 
> also in which a bitch is NOT a doctor and only did minimal barely ass research so don't fact check me thanks my bachelor's degree is in literal nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I'm NOT changing the posting schedule, it's still Tuesday/Saturday BUT I'm gonna be really busy tomorrow and don't think I'll be able to post, so I'm gonna do it a day early instead of a day late. ¨̮

His head hurts. He groans quietly, his eyes squeezing shut tighter, though they haven’t opened yet. He lets out a ragged breath and tries to grasp at his memories. Why does his head hurt so bad? He isn’t sure. 

There’s pressure. Someone’s holding his hand, and he isn’t sure who it could be. He takes another deep breath, hoping it will miraculously cure the throbbing at the base of his skull, and peeks his eyes open. 

The first thing he notices is the harsh light. The dull throbbing is immediately intensified, a sharp, stabbing pain making him wince. He squeezes his eyes shut again, a soft groan of discomfort escaping him. 

“Jake?” 

“Ames?” His eyes snap open again, and there’s no pain in the world that could make him look away from her. His voice is raspy and thick. He doesn’t really recognize it. She’s smiling at him, and then her hand is on his face. His eyes flutter shut, and it jogs his memory. Amy’s hand on his face, her fear-stricken eyes, a gun, the grass. He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes opening wider to take her in. 

“Are you okay?” 

She laughs softly. “You’re the one in the hospital, Jake.” 

He grins sheepishly at her. “That a yes?” 

“Yes.” She pulls her hands away. He craves the contact, but he just looks at her in the absence of her touch. “How are you feeling?” 

“My head hurts,” he replies automatically. Her lips tug into a frown, which he mirrors without missing a beat. He wants to see her smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Of course I’m here.” She reaches for the call button, presses it once. “Do you remember what happened?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut again for a second. The light makes his head hurt worse, but he just wants to look at her. He thought he was dying, and he thought he had seen her for the last time, and now he just wants to keep seeing her. “Kind of. There was a gun?” 

She nods. “Yeah, you, uh…” She looks down at her lap, seemingly embarrassed. “You pushed me out of the way. We fell on the ground, and you hit your head on a rock.”

“There was blood,” he adds. 

She nods again. “The bullet grazed your side. The doctors said you’re really lucky, because half an inch further, and you may have been in real trouble.” 

He shakes his head, a quiet sound of disagreement coming from his lips. “I’m just glad you didn’t get shot. Were you hurt?” 

She shrugs her shoulders. “Not really. I have a couple bruises. You took the worst of it.” 

“Ms. Santiago, what’s the—” A doctor appears in the room, quieting when she sees that Jake is awake. Something about her tone makes him think this isn’t the first time she’s been called to his room. “Mr. Peralta! You’re awake. How are you feeling?” 

“Like I hit my head on a rock.” Amy glares at him, and he grins over at her until she’s smiling, too. “I’m okay. My head kind of hurts.” 

“I’d imagine so.” The doctor approaches, so Amy shifts to make room for her in the space. She leans in with one of those little lights. He flinches at the light, but manages to keep his eyes open. “Good, follow the light for me?” She traces the light in different patterns slowly, and he does his best to keep up with it. “Great. Looks great.” 

The doctor takes a step back. “Well, the good news is that we ran a few tests while you were asleep, and everything seems to be in good, working order. The swelling seems to be under control. Just a standard concussion. You’ll need lots of rest and plenty of fluids.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “How long do I have to stay here?” 

“I can actually get your exit paperwork ready now. I’ll have a nurse come in and show you how to change the dressing on your wound. It’s not deep, but it was a pretty good surface laceration, so you got a couple of stitches. It’ll need to stay covered for four days. You’ll peel it off when you shower and _gently_ wash the area, but you’ll have to reapply the dressing when you’re done.” He nods, but he’s only half-following what she’s saying. He looks to Amy, and she seems to be listening, so he thinks that he can probably text her to ask questions if he forgets any of this. “I assume you’ll be staying with him?” 

Jake raises his eyebrows, but Amy doesn’t seem shocked at all. 

“I can just call Gina,” he interrupts. 

“I already talked to Holt,” Amy replies, an eyebrow raised. “I took tomorrow off. You don’t have to call Gina.” 

“You don’t have to take care of me, Ames. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“I know I don’t _have to._ You got shot for me, Jake. Let me do this.” 

He swallows, his eyes slowly tracing over her. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Hmm.” The doctor looks between them. “I was under the impression that you two were a couple. I apologize for any—”

Jake interrupts her with a laugh. “A couple? Me and Santiago?” He laughs again. Amy raises her eyebrows at him. “That’s ridiculous, right Ames?” 

She laughs quietly. “Yeah, that would be crazy.” 

“Real crazy,” Jake agrees. “Because Teddy’s your soulmate.” Amy makes a face that he doesn’t exactly understand, and he wants to push the issue further, but his head is _killing him_. “I’m sorry, my head hurts.” 

“Oh, yes,” the doctor continues, “we can prescribe you something for that. I’ll have the nurse talk to you both about what the next two days will look like, and then you should be able to fill out your exit paperwork and leave. The nurse will go over all the symptoms to be concerned about and reasons you should return, but everything seems to be in good, working order.” 

“Thank you,” Amy smiles over at the doctor. 

“No problem. Feel better, Mr. Peralta.” 

He can feel her eyes on him when the doctor leaves the room, but he doesn’t look at her just yet. “You don’t have to, Ames.” 

“I know.” He peeks over at her, finding her familiar, serious eyes set on him. “But I’m going to.” She falters for a moment. “Unless you don’t want me to. If you’d be more comfortable with Gina, then—”

“No, no.” He smiles, but he’s suddenly shy as he returns her eye contact. “I’m comfortable with you.” 

“Good.” 

“Good,” he repeats. She rolls her eyes, and his lips tug into a smirk as his eyes slip shut again. 

—

“I just feel really good,” he murmurs. He’s leaned back into the nest of blankets Amy built for him on his couch. His eyes are only barely open, and he doesn’t think he’s glanced at Die Hard a single time since she turned it on for him, though he has said a couple of lines and grinned at the way she shook her head at him. His feet are in her lap because he’s stretched out as far as he can be across the couch. She’s curled against the opposite arm of the couch, and her hand falls against his shin when she laughs at him, so naturally, he makes her laugh as much as he can manage. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. You’re high, Jake.” 

He squints his eyes at her. “I am _not_ high, Amy.” She makes a face at him, but she laughs when he tries to mimic her. “It’s not even that strong.” 

“You look high,” she adds with a laugh. 

He hums, his head tipping back against the pillows. There’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table, and his favorite movie is playing quietly in the background, and he’s too blissfully unaware (because he’s had half of an _it’s not that strong, Ames_ vicodin to help subside the pain—in his head, and his side, and his shoulder) to realize how domestic this all feels. 

But then she’s toying with the hem of his sweatpants around his ankle, just mindlessly rubbing her thumb on the skin between his pants and his sock while she watches the movie, and it’s suddenly all he can think about. She smiles over at him, and he attempts to smile back, but he’s not certain that the expression actually comes through. He closes his eyes and gives his best attempt at relaxing under her minimal touch on his ankle. 

“We should probably get you to bed soon, huh?” 

“Mmm?” He shifts, wincing as he tries to push himself up on his elbows. “Thought we were having a movie marathon?” 

Amy laughs quietly. “You’re not going to make it all the way through this movie, much less the next one.” 

He concedes. She’s right, he _is_ tired. “I need to take a shower first, though. From the chase, you know.”

Her nose wrinkles, a gesture of understanding. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to climb into bed after that, either.” 

He’ll admit that _fine_ , maybe he _was_ a little high from the painkiller, but he’s certain that there’s never been anything quite as sobering as Amy Santiago helping him get undressed. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her, leaning against the bathroom counter. “I can do it myself.” 

“Okay. But I’m gonna help take off the bandages.” 

He holds her eye contact, grimacing when she stands her ground and doesn’t leave the room. He sighs, then reaches up to grab the back of his shirt. His hand isn’t even halfway there when he gasps in pain, wincing and slumping against the wall. “Shit.” 

“Let me help.” 

He shakes his head. “I can do it.” 

“Jake, c’mon.” She maintains the distance between them, though she’s leaning in slightly closer, her anxiety emanating from her in waves. “You got shot today. And you took a pretty hard fall. Just let me help you.” 

He stares at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched. He reluctantly nods. “Okay.” 

It turns out that someone undressing you for reasons that are decidedly as platonic as can be is possibly _more_ intimate than being undressed for sexual reasons. 

The air is thick in the room. Her touch is light, and her fingers draw goosebumps on his skin each time they brush against his torso on their way to tug his shirt up. She carefully avoids his bandages, then gently guides his arm, taking care to make sure she moves slow enough so as to not hurt him. Her lips slip apart in all of her focus, and his eyes don’t leave her face for a single second. She’s close enough that he can feel her breath against his skin. 

The hot water isn’t even on yet, but he suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees. 

She folds his shirt and sets it on the counter. His mouth feels dry, and it takes a little extra effort to swallow. She smiles up at him briefly, then turns her attention to the bandage on the side of his ribs. “You ready?” 

He nods once, his eyes watching hers as they flicker across his chest. Removing the bandages requires a lot more physical contact, it turns out. She has one hand pressed to his chest, her fingers smoothing over the edge of a bandage. She’s careful, and she moves slowly, and her breath tickles against his collarbone, and he’s gritting his teeth, because she still hasn’t taken off her red lipstick, and each second, the room feels hotter. Her free hand sinks lower, lingering on his waist as she tries to find a comfortable position to both see and peel at the bandage, and it’s all he can think about. She tugs a little too quickly at one of the corners, and the unexpected rip tugs a sound out of him—an embarrassing sound, somewhere between pain and pleasure. He clears his throat, and she avoids his eyes, and he’s a little turned on, and the situation almost has him wishing the bullet _did_ go another half inch over because at least then he wouldn’t have to endure this. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. He’s never gritted his teeth this hard in his life, and he’s begging, _begging_ his body to please, just _please_ cooperate with him and hold it together for just a few more minutes. Amy is evidently _not_ on his side, based solely on the way that she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he doesn’t even care when she begins to move slower for fear that she’s hurting him. He can’t watch her bite her lip with her hands on his chest and her breath on his neck and manage to keep it together. She can probably feel his heart hammering in his chest. It’s just the two of them, and there’s nowhere to shift the focus, and his breath is getting shallower by the second. 

A few more torturous seconds pass. Jake’s clenching his jaw, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He wants to tell her it’s okay, but he can’t manage to even remember how to breathe correctly, and all of the focus he _could_ use for that is much better used thinking about literally anything that isn’t Amy’s hands brushing across his skin, gripping his side to keep him still as she tugs at the final bandage. He sucks in a sharp breath when the tension from the bandage suddenly disappears. The hand on his side flattens, but doesn’t pull away, and when he opens his eyes, she’s smiling up at him. She has to know what she’s doing to him. “There! All done.” 

He swallows, his voice coming out weak and raspy. “Thank you.” 

She turns and throws the old bandaging away. “Uh…” She looks him over, starting at his chest and inching her way down and he’s _praying_ that he’s doing as good of a job at redirecting his thoughts as he thinks he is. “You can manage your pants, right?” 

“Yes—” He responds immediately. “Yes, yeah, I can get those by myself.” 

She grins sheepishly. “I figured. Okay, well, uh, I’ll leave you to it. Just be careful when you’re washing the stitches, remember.” 

“Mhm,” he urges her forward. 

“And I’ll just be right outside the door here. Call me if you need anything.” 

“Mhm, mhm, thank you!” 

The biggest sigh of relief he has ever released in his life escapes him the second the door is shut with her on the other side. Now that he’s alone and he isn’t going to be drawing more attention to places he didn’t want her eyes to follow, he takes a second to look himself over. He’s safe, he thinks. He’s really turned on, but there’s no physical evidence to prove it, and he’s _not_ going to do anything about it—not with Amy on the other side of the door, at least. He has to fight off a shiver at the memory of her fingers trailing across his ribs, and _god_ , the way she bit her lip, and _—he needs to stop._

He struggles a little with undressing the rest of the way, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask for Amy’s help with _taking his pants off_ , so he struggles through and tries to keep his pained groans muffled enough that she won’t try to come in. He turns on the water and immediately hops in the shower—he needs the comfort of a hot shower, but he definitely needs the shock of the cold water first to pull himself out of his current mindset. He gasps at the contact, and Amy knocks gently on the door. 

“Jake? You okay?” 

His _mhm!_ is a few pitches higher than normal, but she thankfully doesn’t press the issue. His shower takes him a little longer than usual—a combination of standing under the hot water for too long and trying his hardest not to hurt either his shoulder, his side, or his head while washing. He’s already out of the shower before he realizes his latest mistake. 

“Hey, Ames? I forgot to grab a—”

“What’s up?” They both gasp as she walks into the room, his hands rushing to cover himself just as her hands rush to cover her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so—”

“A towel!” He finishes, sounding even more panicked than he feels, which is really saying something. His body temperature is already high from the hot shower, but it feels like the steam in the room is getting even hotter. There’s water running in little droplets all down his body, and he feels more naked than he has ever been. Her eyes are practically bulging out of her head, and it’s only been a few seconds, but she _hasn’t looked away_ , and then she’s seemingly aware that she hasn’t looked away, because she’s fumbling and turning and babbling. 

“I’m so—oh my god, so sorry, let me—I’ll just—”

“Towel,” he reminds her, finally managing to move from the spot he’d been frozen in so that he can pull the shower curtain around his waist. 

“I’ll just towel!” She stumbles, rushing out of the room to go retrieve a towel for him. 

She comes back a moment later, averting her eyes as she hands him the towel. Her eyes flash back over his chest momentarily, and she bites her lip, then she’s rushing out of the room again. His mind is packed full of confusing thoughts—like how she didn’t look displeased at what she saw, and he’d never seen her bite her lip like that while she was wearing lipstick, and what did a lip bite like that mean in this context?—and he’d tease her about this if he wasn’t feeling so vulnerable and confused. The threat of possibilities if the circumstances surrounding this mishap had been just slightly different—if he wasn’t injured and she wasn’t taking care of him and wasn’t, ya’know, somebody else’s soulmate—have his mind coming dangerously close to his pre-cold-shower thoughts, and he’s shaking his head and wrapping the towel around his waist, only to realize that he inevitably has to walk out of the bathroom and back in front of her with nothing but a towel between them because he doesn’t have any clothes with him. 

He pokes his head out of the door, finding her chewing on her lip nervously, seated on the edge of his bed. She jumps when she sees him. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly. “That you saw, uh, ya’know… everything.” 

“Oh my god, don’t be—” She falters when he steps out of the room, her eyes lingering on the towel wrapped snug around his waist. “Uh, you don’t, there’s nothing to apologize for. I mean, like, _I_ walked in on _you_ , so I should be apologizing. It was good—you’re, not that, oh my god, not that it was _good_ , just that it, ya’know, you, and seeing, uh, _you,”_ she gestures across his body, mumbling slightly, “your body… it wasn’t _bad_ —you look not bad.” 

His eyebrows are raised, watching as Amy spectacularly tanks her attempt at being any sort of normal. Vulnerable or not, he’s amused (and maybe, potentially, just the _slightest bit_ smitten) with her uncomfortable stammering. He doesn’t quite miss the admission that she didn’t dislike what she saw, but he tries to shove that thought to the back of his mind (where it will _definitely_ torment him the second he’s alone) as he traipses past her and over to his dresser. He pulls out a new pair of sweatpants and some boxers, simply smirks over at her, and disappears back into the bathroom. 

When he reemerges a few minutes later, she looks slightly less frazzled. He manages to keep a straight face as he makes his way over to his bed and sits on the edge. “Okay, what’s up with these new bandages again?” 

“Oh!” She seems glad to have a new subject. “Here, I’ll show you.” 

She disappears from the room, returning a moment later with the little tub the doctor had given them—complete with gauze, bandages, and some sort of antibacterial ointment. 

“Here,” she murmurs softly. She slips past him, her thigh brushing against his as she climbs onto the bed and sits at his other side. “Lean back and lift your arm up for me.” 

It’s in this moment that he realizes the mistake he’s made. 

Because if Amy helping him to take his shirt off in his bathroom felt intimate, he isn’t even sure what to call _this_. He thought a cold shower was the solution to all of his problems, but he hadn’t accounted for Amy’s hands working over him in any capacity while they were _in his bed._ He holds her eye contact as he leans back into the pillows like she’d told him to—yet another mistake. Her eyes don’t leave his as he sinks into the pillows, and when he swallows, it feels more like a gulp. He rests his arm to his side, and she immediately sets to work. Her gentle fingers dance across his skin, applying ointment, then smoothing it across his skin. Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she works to make sure that the entire wound is covered. He shivers under her touch, and her eyes flicker over his face. 

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” 

He clenches his jaw, shaking his head. “No. Just tickles.” 

Her lips tug into a smile, but they part slightly as she begins unwinding the gauze. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut tight and once again trying to ignore the intimacy of the situation—the vulnerability, the trust, the ridiculously strong attraction he’s feeling toward her. And finally, _finally_ , once she’d smoothed the final bandage on, he thinks he’s in the clear. 

But then she says it. 

“Okay! It’s all bandaged up and new.” She smiles at him, her hand resting just underneath the bandage for a moment. “I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “What?”

She tilts her head, hesitating from where she was about to get up from his bed. “What?” 

“You’re not sleeping on my couch, Ames. You already came here to help me. I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch. I’ll take the couch and you can have my bed.” 

She makes a face at him. “You literally saved my life today. I’m pretty sure I can handle sleeping on your couch for one night.” 

“You’re not sleeping on the couch, Amy. That’s ridiculous.” 

“You _got shot for me,”_ she reiterates. “You’re already hurt. You don’t need to sleep on an uncomfortable couch.” 

He sighs. “Look, fine. But you don’t need to either.” They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them saying anything. He sighs again. “We’ve shared a bed on a stakeout before. We can just share my bed if that’s fine with you.” 

She visibly swallows. He’s positive that he didn’t imagine it. He resists the urge to do the same. 

“I can’t get in your bed. I haven’t showered and—”

“You can take a shower here, Amy.” 

She looks toward the bathroom, her hand twitching in her lap as she thinks it over. “I don’t have clothes.” 

“You can borrow some of mine.” 

She bites her lip. “I don’t know, Jake.” 

“You don’t have to,” he gently informs her. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can call Gina. But I would feel a lot better if you didn’t sleep on the couch. Whether you’re in here or you go home, either way.” 

She’s chewing on her lip again. He silently watches, waiting for her to make the call. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Okay, I’ll stay. But I am gonna shower before I lay in your bed.” 

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” 

She rolls her eyes at his teasing. He eases himself out of bed and makes his way over to his dresser, retrieving an old pair of sweats and a t-shirt for her. “This okay?” 

She smiles, inspecting the Die Hard shirt he’d chosen. “This is perfect. Thank you, Jake.” 

“Hey.” He shakes his head. “Thank _you._ For everything.” She smiles softly, looking down at the floor. “Seriously, Amy. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

She shakes her head back. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for me, either.” 

“I’m glad I did.” 

She grabs another towel from the hallway, then shrugs as she backs through the bathroom door. “I’m glad I’m here.” 

He smiles at her, the grin not fading in the slightest even when the door is closed. 

“Me too,” he whispers. 

He lies in bed, and he doesn’t even think about the fact that Amy Santiago is in his shower. He doesn’t think about the way her hands were on his chest only moments ago, and he doesn’t think about the way her bottom lip was tugged between her teeth, and he doesn’t think about the fact that she’s going to be in his clothes, lying in bed next to him in a very short period of time. 

He thinks about the way that his heart feels full. He feels _together_ , like everything makes sense for the first time since he’d first seen the color red on her lips. If seeing green when he’d been terrified for her life earlier hadn’t been hint enough, this moment said it all. 

He’s definitely in love with Amy Santiago. Or, at least, he’s definitely _going to be_ —in time. He knows now that she is, without a doubt, his soulmate. 

He knows what this means for him. He knows that this night is a borrowed one. He knows that general attraction and adorably fumbling over seeing him naked and wearing his clothes to sleep next to him in his bed—it all means nothing.

He _knows._

But he’s going to cherish it anyway. 

He is an anomaly. He won’t ever get to be with her. He won’t ever get to be _hers_. But he can have this night. He can have his feelings. He can have her friendship. And that will have to be enough for him. 

He wants to tell her. He wants to give her a reason—a reason to stay, a reason to come back, a reason to want him the way that he wants her. He _wants_ a future with her. 

But he doesn’t want to complicate things for her. He doesn’t want to make this harder for either of them, and he doesn’t want to face her rejection when she inevitably chooses Teddy anyway. 

Teddy’s boring, but he has his shit together. She laughs when she tells Jake to grow up, but underneath those words, there’s truth. He _does_ need to grow up. He’s thirty-four years old and he doesn’t even have a savings account. He’s not good enough to be with her. He can’t give her everything that she needs. He knows that, probably anybody with eyes can see that, and he’s sure that it’s a fact that she’s aware of.

He wishes that things were different. He wishes that _he_ was different. Perhaps if he was different, she would have already been dating him when they’d first seen colors. If he were better, maybe he never would have been in this situation in the first place. Maybe she would have wanted him back. 

She smiles shyly at him as she leaves the bathroom, her clothes folded in her hands. She sets her clothes on top of his dresser, then hesitates near the side of his bed. He’s just going to give her a once-over, _he swears_. He was _not_ planning to check her out. He glances at her wet hair and makes a mental note that she’s just as cute when her hair isn’t dry, and he notices that she washed off her red lipstick and he’s grateful, and he’s just going to glance at her and that’s it. That was _it_. 

Except that the second his eyes fall on her chest, everything changes. 

Right across her chest, in big, bold letters, are the words _Die Hard._

They’re written in a color he’s never seen before. 

He falters. It took two months between his first color and his second. He saw green for the first time this afternoon. It’s been less than twelve hours, and he’s looking at a new color on Amy’s chest. He doesn’t know what this means. He has no idea what emotion caused this. He knows three things for sure: it’s a pretty color, he needs to stop staring at her chest, and he should have given her a shirt that he wouldn’t find her quite so appealing in.

“Are you sure?” She finally asks.

He scoffs quietly, doing his best to reel in his rampant emotions. They’ve slept in the same bed before. She’s ridiculous, and adorable, and _of course_ he’s sure. “Get in bed, Ames.” 

She stares at him a beat longer, but eventually concedes and climbs into his bed. He tries to tear his eyes away when she stretches to turn off the lamp on his bedside table. The Die Hard shirt with the new color rides up, and the waistband of the sweatpants that are just slightly too big on her slip down, and he’s awarded the perfect image of her bare hip. He realizes that she’s got nothing on underneath his clothes—she didn’t have clean underwear here, so of course she doesn’t, but it’s a thought that hadn’t occurred to him prior to seeing her hip, and yet it quickly becomes the only thought buzzing around his stupid brain. 

He could have taken care of this when he was in the shower. He could have ensured that he didn’t put himself in any more uncomfortable situations after she walked in on him. Instead, he’s in his bed next to Amy, and his breathing is shallow, and he’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying his hardest to rid himself of thoughts like _I bet she’d really like it when someone kisses that spot on her hip_ , knowing damn well that he’ll never get to be that someone, therefore he’ll never know if she really does. 

But then he’s thinking about doing just that, and he’s thinking about that embarrassing sound he made when she’d pulled his bandage off earlier, and how she might go about making him make a sound like that _on purpose,_ and the way that her eyes clung to his body when she saw him naked, and he’s thinking about what kind of sounds she might make if he kissed that really inviting spot on her neck, and how her lips would probably be soft on his, but he hopes her hands wouldn’t be quite as gentle. 

God, _what is wrong with him?_

He’s not sure if he can blame this on the concussion, or on the painkiller, or just on the fact that he’s seeing colors for this woman who, by the way, he’s been attracted to for years, but he needs to get his shit together and stop thinking about her like this. 

He sighs much louder than he means to. Amy rolls over to face him, concern written all across her face. “Are you okay?” 

He turns his head to face her. The dim light from the window somehow has her looking even more beautiful than she had only seconds before. His breath catches in his throat, and he stares at her for a few extra seconds, eyes searching for something he can’t even name. They’re face-to-face in his bed. He licks his lips and nods slowly. 

He’s not entirely sure what does it, but every sexual thought about her completely evacuates his mind. All he wants— _all_ he wants—is to hold her. He wants her head on his chest, and his hands in her hair. He just wants to breathe her in. He wants to feel better. 

He tries not to think about the future, because he knows his future isn’t red, or green, or this new color written across Amy’s chest. No matter how many colors he sees because of her, and no matter how close she seems, she will always be just out of his reach. 

His future is gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orange - longing, desire


	5. blue (because nothing's ever mine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jake is feeling very sad and lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay heads up there are some sexual situations ahead but,,, ya'know, it's me, what'd you expect

He inhales a deep breath. His bed smells clean—like his shampoo, maybe. His eyebrows pull together when he moves his hand. He’s holding something much more solid than his comforter. He’s holding some _one_ , he realizes, and memories from the night before slowly flood his mind. Amy’s in his bed. He peeks his eyes open, double checking what he’s already fairly certain is true—and it is. 

Amy isn’t just in his bed. She’s in his arms. He can smell his shampoo better than normal because she used it the night before. His face is practically buried in her hair. Her body is pressed to his—all the way to his, inch for inch, they’re touching from where her shoulder is leaned against his chest, down to where her hips are tucked against his, all the way down to where her ankle is slotted between his calves. His arm is wrapped around her, his fingers tucked underneath the edge of her shirt, warm against her ribs. She’s still asleep, but her fingers are clutching at his bicep. He inhales another deep breath, smiling to himself. He hasn’t woken up enough to feel badly about this. This is another borrowed moment, he knows. But borrowed or not, she’s in his arms. He’s holding her, and he feels more content than he has in months. 

He shifts slightly, and that’s when his entire bubble of comfort pops. At some point in the night, when they’d rolled closer and snuggled up together, he’d rolled onto his side with both the stitches _and_ his hurt shoulder. The sound he makes when he shifts against his sore shoulder is a sort of deep, raspy moan. It’s comparable to the sound he made the day before when Amy pulled his bandage off, and he immediately tenses.

Amy, in all of her snuggly, sleepy, morningness, does what any person might do when the person spooning them moans against their neck. Her own sleepy whimper escapes her lips, and his eyes snap open because _no_. _No,_ Amy did not just moan back at him with her entire body pressed to his. 

But yes, she did. She _did_ moan back at him, and then her fingers grip a little tighter on his bicep, and he’s already tense because _what is happening_ , and then things really fall apart. Her hand shifts, her fingers twining with his underneath her shirt and dragging his hand further up. His breath comes out in a shaky sort of sigh when she squeezes his hand, in turn making him squeeze a handful of her chest. She hums breathily, then she snuggles in closer. 

And when he says she snuggles in closer, he means that their bodies are already pressed tight together. She’s rolling her hips closer to him, wiggling against him, sighing softly, and he’s almost instantly hard. She hums happily when she grinds closer to what is now a _very_ noticeable erection. His breath hitches, and he’s frozen, isn’t sure _what_ to do—and then her other hand is leaving his bicep and reaching behind her, her thumb tucked in the waistband of the side of his sweatpants and tugging, her fingernails gently trailing across his bare hip, and he realizes. 

She doesn’t know she’s at his apartment. 

She woke up all snuggled in someone’s arms and, reasonably, assumed that she was at home. With her boyfriend. Who she thinks she’s grinding against. 

“Ames—” He manages, breathy and strangled and confused and _god_ , so clearly and stupidly turned on. She freezes against him. Neither of them move a single centimeter. 

Then slowly—so slowly—her hand pulls back away from his hip. He pulls his hand back out from under her shirt, wincing and whimpering quietly in pain as he shifts to roll away from her. He gasps when he manages to lie flat on his back, his stitches and his shoulder both aching. She turns to face him, her eyes wide, and for a second, she doesn’t seem sure of what to do. He squeezes his eyes shut, because truly anything in the world would be easier than returning her eye contact right now, and he hopes—and hopes, and hopes, and hopes—that the world will just open up underneath him and swallow him up. 

“Jake,” she finally says. She sounds small and shy. He doesn’t open his eyes when he shakes his head. She touches his shoulder. He jumps at the contact, another pained groan rippling from his throat. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, are you okay?” She whispers. 

He shakes his head again. 

“Can I…” She begins. “I’m going to go get you a painkiller. Do you need…” She trails off, and he can imagine, based on the tone of her voice, that she’s looking at the obvious proof that he’s still turned on. He feels around on the bed for the comforter and tugs it into his lap, his breath hitching once again at the pain that the movement shoots through him. “Do you need, uhm… a minute?” 

He shakes his head again, but still refuses to open his eyes. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his skin is on fire, and everything feels wrong. He feels wrong and ashamed and confused and, most notably—hurt. His shoulder hurts, and his side hurts, and whether he wants them to be or not, his feelings are hurt. His feelings are hurt because he was stupid enough to allow himself to get into this position in the first place. 

Soulmates don’t even matter. His parents were soulmates. They saw colors with each other, and they got married, and their worlds were changed forever because of their love. And yet his father still left. His father still barrelled through countless other relationships, a cannonball wrecking the chances of who knows how many otherwise happy soulmates. 

Some people never even meet their soulmates. Some people never see color at all. 

So why, then, is he allowing seeing colors for Amy to have such a massive effect on him? 

He shouldn’t have let himself fall this hard. It doesn’t matter that he already had feelings for her the first time he saw her red lipstick. He knew exactly what this situation was from that moment on, and he continued to allow himself to get closer to her. To fall harder for her. To get more wrapped up in a future that he could never have with her. 

He should be happy that he can see color. He should have taken that and ran with it, but instead, he’s just getting more tangled up in her. That’s bad enough for him, but the more tangled he gets with her, the more likely it will be that he tangles her up, too. 

He isn’t going to be his father. He isn’t going to ruin anybody else’s life, anybody’s else’s shot at being with their soulmate, just because things aren’t working for him. _Especially_ not hers.

He doesn’t want any more borrowed moments. He wants real moments that he’s simply never going to get to have. 

And it _hurts._

“No,” he whispers. “It just hurts.” 

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers back. 

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment after she leaves the room. He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He pushes himself into a sitting position despite his body’s consistent plea for him to stop moving. His jaw is clenched, his eyes staring at the mattress in front of him when Amy reappears. 

“Here,” she murmurs. She holds out a glass of water, dropping the pill into his hand. He avoids her eyes as he accepts it. He takes a long drink of water, then swallows the pill, closing his eyes briefly when he’s done. 

She’s quiet for a moment, but she hasn’t moved. He looks up at her, only to find her staring across the room with a look that he can’t quite understand. He follows her gaze and finds her staring into the mirror across from her. 

“Ames?”

She shakes her head, then pulls at the shirt she’s wearing as she looks down at it. She can see the new color. Jake’s eyebrows draw together. He still isn’t sure what emotion causes that color to appear. He hasn’t had a chance to look it up. 

“Can you see this?” She asks softly. 

His jaw clenches harder. He should say yes. He should come clean and tell her the truth. She _asked him_ if he could see the color on her chest. Her eyes are flickering over him. She’s waiting, and he’s just gritting his teeth, his eyebrows pulled together, his eyes avoiding hers. _He should say yes._

“No.” 

She shakes her head again. “I don’t under…” She trails off. He looks up at her. She blinks, then shakes her head another time. “I don’t understand.” 

He isn’t sure what to say, but he is sure of one thing. He can’t do this. He can’t be with her right now. Every second that he’s with her, he gets closer to fucking it all up. “I, uh…” He pauses, a deep breath interrupting his words. “I think I need to be alone right now.” 

She lets go of the shirt, as if she’d completely forgotten whatever was concerning her so much. “Of course. I’m sorry, I’ll go in the living room and—”

“Ames.” She hesitates in the doorway, looking over at him. “I think maybe it would be best if you, uh…” He shrugs, averting his eyes from her. “Went home.” 

“Oh.” She nods, then immediately shakes her head. Her fingers weave together in front of her, and her eyes are drawn to the floor. She’s feeling the same way that he is. Ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. It only makes him feel worse. “I’m sorry, Jake. About—” She swallows, her eyes still avoiding his. “About _that.”_

“Amy.” He waits a moment, but she doesn’t look up at him. “Ames, look at me, please.” She’s reluctant, but her head tips up to meet his eye contact. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Amy. Please don’t apologize. I just… I need to be alone. And the concussion risk is gone.” 

“Are you okay?” 

He looks down as he nods his head. He’s not okay. He can’t look at her and say that he is. He’s less okay with each second that passes. Every time he looks at her, he hears echoes of a future that’s just out of his reach. Every second that ticks by reminds him that he is alone—as alone as he’s ever been and, apparently, as alone as he’s going to be for the rest of his life. 

For thirty-four years, he’s seen nothing but gray. 

Somehow, even with all the colors he’s finally able to see, he’s never felt more gray than he does in this moment. 

“Can I call you later?” 

Her words are so soft that he barely hears them. She sounds small, like she thinks this is all her fault. Like she’s blaming herself for what’s happening. 

He should say no.

Things like this are exactly what got him here. She cares about him. She’s his best friend, and once upon a time, a call to just check in would’ve been nothing but a nice gesture. Now a call like that is just a reminder that they’re only friends, and they’ll only ever be friends, and every moment of their friendship will consist of him harboring his insurmountable, undeniable feelings for her. 

“Yeah, of course, Ames.”

But he wants to talk to her. He wants to hear her voice. He wants her. So of _course_ he says yes. Of course he does. Even though he knows how stupid it is, he says yes. How could he have said no when his own hurt was reflected back at him in her eyes?

“Please call me if you need anything, okay? Anything.” She looks at him solemnly. 

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Promise?”

He nods, meeting her eyes again. “I promise.”

“Okay.” She nods, then swallows. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Be safe getting home.”

She nods, eyes flickering over him anxiously a final time. He watches, gritting his teeth, as she turns and walks away from him. It’s the last thing he wants. He’s aching, physically and otherwise, and he just wants her. In any way, he wants her. He wants to bask in her presence, to laugh with her even though it will hurt the stitches on his ribs, to talk to her about anything in the world. He wants her to stay. 

But he knows that will just make it all harder. It will just continue to make it all harder for him. It will convince him that maybe he _should_ just tell her that he’s seeing colors, and he knows that he can’t give in and tell her, because that will only make things harder for her. All these feelings he has for her, all the care and confusion and that-thing-that-might-be-love—he doesn’t want to put that on her. It’s his problem. It shouldn’t ever have to be hers. 

And it won’t be. 

But he isn’t prepared for the silence. 

The silence is the hardest part when she first leaves. The silence bears with it its own reminders. Reminders that this is what his home will sound like for the rest of his life. He’ll never come home from work to the sound of someone in his shower, or to the sound of music rhythmically floating through the walls, or to soft humming coming from the kitchen. 

His soulmate will do those things with someone else. 

He fell asleep last night to the sound of Amy breathing next to him. That will never happen again. Instead, there will be silence. Perhaps the silence will be interrupted by nights of sound with people who inevitably won’t stick around, but ultimately, there will be silence. He will be isolated, and abandoned, and alone, and he will never be able to get the thick, sinister silence out of his head. 

That realization makes this particular silence feel extra loud. A symphony orchestra of silence assaults him, and he doesn’t recognize that there are frustrated tears in his eyes until they’re already rolling down his cheeks. His breath is ragged, and his ribs hurt, and he’s _alone._ Always alone. 

It was some special kind of hell, he thought, to know your soulmate, but to be unable to be with them. He isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this—to be the only one who deserves this. Not just to know your soulmate, as an acquaintance, per se, but to _know them._ To know them like he knows Amy. 

He knows Amy better than he knows any other person in his life. He feels pretty confident that she could say the same about him. It was the nature of their job, the nature of their friendship, the nature of _them_. 

They know one another’s middle school crushes. He knows what she has for breakfast every morning. He knows about her family, her friends, her boyfriends—past and otherwise. He knows that she loves rom-coms, though she never talks about them, and hates roller coasters. He knows her order from every restaurant in a twenty mile vicinity from either of their apartments _and_ the precinct, and also that one place in New Jersey where they went when they had to travel for a case. 

But it’s more than all that. 

He knows the Amy that other people don’t always see. He knows the Amy that Amy doesn’t like. He knows 3am, hasn’t slept in over 24 hours Amy, and he knows 5am, falling asleep on his shoulder on the way to the Detectives Only Getaway Amy. He knows Amy with tears in her eyes that she won’t let fall until he quietly pulls her into a hug, an understanding, welcoming affection from her partner and friend giving her license to let it all out. He knows the Amy whose grip on his arm is so tight that it hurts as she’s trying to catch her breath from laughing so hard. He knows her laughter, every kind of laugh—the soft ones, the annoyed ones, the cute ones, the goofy ones, the tearful ones—all infectious as hell. 

He knows her secrets. Things she says she’s never told anyone, and things that he’ll never repeat to another soul. Things that, in the right moment, he’ll gently tease her about, but she’ll always know that he’s never judged her, not even for a second. 

All the things about Amy that she hates, all the behind-the-scenes facets of her, the idiosyncrasies and things she’d never allow anybody else to see—he’s seen it all. He’s seen it all, and he loves her. He _thinks_ he loves her. He thinks he loves her, not despite these things, but including them. He hasn’t found a thing about her yet that has made him like her less. The things about her that frustrate him are still parts of her that he respects and admires. They’re the pieces of her that make her a complete person, and he’s finally coming to terms with the way he feels about that complete person. 

As much as he would still probably deny it if anybody said it, he’s had a lot of time to think (and stress, and agonize) over this, and in all probability, he’s already completely and totally in love with her. 

And yet,

despite this,

he will never be hers. 

He will always belong to her, but he will never _be_ hers. 

He will never come home to the sound of Amy Santiago in his shower. He will never arrive to the sound of her singing along to her favorite song, grinning over at him as he makes his way over to spin her around their kitchen. He will never walk in to hear her murmuring a soft _fuck_ because she’d accidentally mixed up the measurements of salt and sugar in whatever she was cooking. 

She would be doing those things with Teddy. 

And he would be doing those things with no one, even though he knew her better than he knew anyone in his life, and even though he would give her every little piece of himself without a second thought. 

All those pieces of him had never been enough for anyone, anyway.

She deserves better than settling for him. 

He’s happy for her. 

He _is_. 

But he can be happy for her and sad for himself at the same time. Those are two very real feelings that can coexist. 

He pulls himself together fairly quickly, though his mind is still flurried with thoughts and hopes and dreams that will never be. It turns out that Amy had been right about only giving him half a painkiller the day before, because before he knows it, the whole painkiller she’d given him this morning has him drifting out of awareness, doomed for a restless, half-colorful dream. 

He awakens to a sound that takes a little too long for him to process. He isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep, but it’s still bright outside. He pushes himself up, and the second thing he notices has him wishing he was still asleep. 

His comforter is no longer gray. 

He fell asleep with gray bedding, and woke up to a different color. 

That means he’s seen three new colors in less than twenty-four hours. Two months earlier, he had seen his first color, and now, after he’d seen his second color, he’d seen his third and fourth within a day. That has to mean something, right?

Before he can dwell on it, the sound that woke him up reverberates through his wall again. Someone’s knocking on his door. He groans, ignores the throbbing in his shoulder, and drags himself out of bed. He trudges his way to the door and opens it without so much as checking the peephole. 

That was his first mistake. 

His second mistake was being so obviously surprised when he opened the door and found that the _entire sky_ was a different color. 

He thought the grass had been overwhelming the day before, but it was nothing compared to the sky. It stretches on as far as he can see, and there is far less around to break up the new color. He barely even has a chance to register that Charles is in front of him before his mouth is hanging open, staring up in awe at a new, really pretty color. 

“I knew it,” Charles mutters. 

Jake shakes his head. “What?”

“I _knew it!”_ Charles repeats, excitement seeping into his words. “I knew you were seeing them, too!”

“I’m not—”

“It’s blue,” Charles interrupts. Jake raises his eyebrows, confused and still attempting to pretend he isn’t seeing colors while simultaneously processing this new color—blue. “The sky,” Boyle clarifies. “It’s blue. And you’re seeing it because you’re sad. And I have Nana Boyle’s famous chicken soup, a bag of sour gummy worms, and all night.” He shrugs. “If you need to talk about it.” 

Jake’s eyebrows slowly shift, drawing together as he stares at his friend. He clenches his jaw, swallowing hard, and allowing his eyes to flicker back up to the sky. The _blue_ sky. He steps to the side to make room for Charles to come in. 

He has to admit that, while talking about it hadn’t solved a single one of his problems, his heart doesn’t feel quite as heavy after sharing everything with Charles. 

“I just can’t believe you’re seeing colors for her.” 

“I know,” Jake whispers. “But also—”

“Exactly,” Charles agrees without waiting for him to finish. “It makes perfect sense. I always knew you two were perfect for each other. I just can’t believe it because—well, I’ve never heard of someone having two soulmates before.” 

Jake’s laugh is humorless. “And you still haven’t. Amy doesn’t have two soulmates. She has one, and his name is Teddy. She’s _my_ soulmate. I’m not hers.” 

Charles blinks slowly at him. “I don’t know if that’s true, Jake.”

Jake slumps back against the couch. “She’s seeing colors with him, Boyle. Not me.” 

“Right.” Charles nods. “But do you know that for sure?” 

“I mean, I haven’t exactly _asked her…_ But she said—”

“Maybe you should.”

By the time Charles looks up, Jake’s intense eyes are already set on him. “Are you insane? In what world should I do that?” 

Charles holds his hands up. “Look, I’m just saying. Don’t you think it’s weird that she saw orange for the first time in your apartment, after what had just happened between you two? And what about the night before?” 

Jake’s teeth clench. Charles had just explained to him that orange is the color typically associated with desire, longing, or lust. Amy _had_ seen him naked the night before, and she _had_ been grinding against him with intention that morning. “She thought she was in bed with him, not me. The feelings were for _him.”_

“Do you know that for sure?” 

Jake’s brows furrow. Her quiet _I don’t understand_ echoes in his mind.

“It wasn’t about me.” 

“Okay. But I think you’re wrong. And I know it’s scary, but I think you should talk to her.” 

Jake shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. 

It isn’t scary. Okay—it’s _terrifying,_ but that isn’t the problem. The problem is that telling her would unnecessarily complicate her life. She’s already happy with Teddy as her soulmate. She doesn’t need him to step in and tangle up all of her perfectly formed lines. It would be different, perhaps, if she wasn’t happy. If something was missing for her, and she was confused, or things didn’t feel right, maybe he’d come clean. But she’s _happy_. And he’s not going to take that away from her just because it could maybe end with him feeling better. It could also end in her feeling worse. One of those two options is considerably worse to him—and surprisingly, it’s not the one that ends with him being completely alone for the rest of his life. 

“Do you love her?” 

Jake sucks in a deep breath at the question. He maintains his eye contact with the floorboards. “I don’t know.” His heart is somehow in his throat and in his stomach simultaneously. “Maybe. I like her. A lot.” 

“You gotta talk to her, Jake.” Charles’s frown seems permanently etched onto his face. “You can’t keep that in.” 

Jake scoffs. “I can. And I plan to. I don’t know what other choice I have.” 

“Tell her.” Charles shrugs. “Fall in love. Be happy. Wouldn’t it be better to tell her and be wrong than to one day find out you were right but you missed out because you didn’t tell her?” 

Jake just shakes his head again. Maybe he’s right. 

Although, maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he confesses his feelings, and she’s confused, and frustrated, and doesn’t want anything to do with him. Maybe she stops being his friend because it makes her feel uncomfortable to be around him after knowing that he’s—or that he at least _thinks_ he’s—seeing colors for her. Maybe it makes things more difficult for her, and she’s faced with a choice—he shouldn’t flatter himself with thinking there’s even a chance that she wouldn’t choose Teddy over him, but he’s hopeful that it would at least be a conversation—that he never wants her to be forced to have. 

The best thing for Amy is for him to keep his mouth shut. 

“I’ll be here for you no matter what you choose, Jake.” Charles offers him a gentle, but sad smile. “But it would be nice to see my friend happy.” 

Jake mirrors his sad smile. He nods, and maintains his eye contact anywhere but at his friend. They don’t talk about it anymore for the rest of the evening, and when Charles leaves, the silence doesn’t feel quite so daunting. 

Later, when he’s alone, he reflects on how he’d never understood when people said they were feeling blue. The deep, navy sky was just as dark and immense as all the emotions swirling through his dizzy head, and for the first time, he understands.

He’s feeling blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blue - sadness, disappointment


	6. yellow (into the light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jake isn't always sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so it's almost saturday!!!! like 7 minutes away so i basically stuck to my schedule! i'm gonna be really busy again tomorrow and don't wanna forget/have to deal w posting tomorrow, so here ya goooo. 
> 
> also i have to go to sleep but wanted to get this posted so this wasn't edited three times like most chapters are. even in the 3x edited chapters i go back and find mistakes sometimes so if this is messy,,,,,, forgive me lmao.
> 
> also also this chapter is long??? and the doc is at 77 pages (and counting) in google docs so that's cool

So.

He _had_ been feeling better. Not, like, great, but, ya’know. Better than before, at least. The second Amy’s name lights up his phone screen, his heart starts hammering in his chest. And then all of the better he had been feeling is dissipating, and all he’s thinking about is this morning, when she had her hand in his pants, and the shame and discomfort is rising in him again, and _god_ , what he would give to erase that moment from his memory. 

He could pretend to be asleep. He could—and perhaps he should—but he said she could call, so he picks up the phone. His voice is shaky and odd when he answers. He doesn’t quite grin when she replies and he finds that her voice is just as uneven as his, but he does feel a bit more at ease. He doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable, but _he’s_ uncomfortable, and at least he’s not the only one feeling it. 

“Jake?” 

He clears his throat. “Sorry.” She had asked how he was doing, and he’d been too caught up in his thoughts to form a response. “Yeah, I’m doing good. I took half a pill tonight, and it really doesn’t even hurt anymore.” 

She’s quiet for a moment. They’re both uncomfortable—like they don’t know how to speak to one another, how to get past the things they’ve been through together in the past twenty-four hours. He forges on, willing to do just about anything to get out of this awkward silence. 

Anything, that is, except take Boyle’s advice. He won’t tell her he’s seeing colors just to get out of the silence. He would allow the awkward silence to physically suffocate him before he would willingly jeopardize her happiness. 

“So, ya’know. Now I’m just… lying here. Doing nothing.” 

“Title of your—”

He heard the exact moment when she’d realized what she had done. She sucked in a sharp breath, her final words getting lost in the rush of air. If the silence between them a few seconds earlier was awkward, he isn’t even sure what to call this one. The seconds tick by, the silence between them expanding their divide by miles, and he just can’t help it. 

He laughs. 

It’s quiet at first, but then he laughs _hard_. He laughs hard enough that he doesn’t hear Amy’s relieved exhale. He laughs so hard that there are tears in his eyes, and pain meds or not, his stitches are burning, and he can’t catch his breath, but he _can’t stop._ He laughs so hard that Amy starts laughing, too, and then it’s just a cycle of one of them finally calming down enough to take a breath, the other’s laughter steadily increasing until they’re both consumed by another fit of giggles. His chest burns every time he breathes by the time he settles down enough to speak again. 

“God, Ames.” Another chuckle slips out of him, and he has to wipe the beginnings of another tear away from his eye. “Of all the times that you could make a sex tape joke.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He’s laughing too much to form a coherent response, so she continues. “It was just—” she stammers, stumbling over her explanation, “—uncomfortable, we were awkward, and I thought a joke would make it better.” 

“A _sex tape joke?_ About me just _lying there?_ Exactly like I was this morning, when you—” 

Her voice went up an octave as she interrupted him. “I know! I didn’t realize until it was too late!” 

“I would normally be overjoyed that you make sex tape jokes.” He snickers quietly, his laughter doubling at her indignant sigh. 

“I _don’t_ make sex tape jokes.” 

“If that’s what they’re like, you shouldn’t.” He laughs breathlessly at her irritated groan, rolling over to get comfortable in his bed and tucking the phone between his head and his pillow. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever gotten that big of a laugh at one of your sex tape jokes.” 

He could see exactly how she was moving her eyebrows as she said it, and it brought that crooked smile right back onto his lips. This laugh came out more incredulous than the others. “I took a bullet for you _yesterday_ , and you’re really just gonna hit me where it hurts like that, huh?” 

“Jake, I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m joking,” he breathes, and he hopes she can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m joking, Amy.” 

_I’m joking, and I need to tell you something,_ his mind supplies. _I’m joking, and I’ve been seeing colors. I’m joking, and you’re the best person I know. I’m joking, and I might be falling in love with you._

He’s quiet instead. 

“So… are we good?” 

He chuckles again. “Yeah, Ames. Of course we’re good.” He lets out a soft laugh. “We were never not good.” 

He can hear her smile. “Good.” 

“Good,” he repeats. 

He’s sure she rolled her eyes at that. It only makes him grin wider. 

“Hey, so, I know things were kind of…” She trails off for a moment, searching for words. “A lot, earlier… but if you don’t have plans tomorrow—”

“What kind of plans do you think I made for my unexpected, injured time off work?” 

“I don’t know! I didn’t want to assume.” 

“I’m free,” he murmurs. “What’d you have in mind?” 

“I don’t know, I just thought maybe, since I have the day off, I could come over? Ya’know, keep you company?” 

He grins again. She’s nervous. Worried about him. She knows that he can handle a day or two by himself, even after being shot. But she’s worried about him, and she wants to see for herself that everything’s fine. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

“Cool. Is noon good? I know you like to sleep late.” 

He scoffs quietly. “You think noon is late?” 

Her response is entirely offended. “You don’t?” 

“Noon is good,” he assures her. 

“Great. I’ll let you get some sleep, then. It’s getting kind of late, and you already took those pain meds.” 

“Mhm,” He hums. He _is_ sleepy. Her voice is practically lulling him to sleep, but he doesn’t want her to go. 

She laughs softly, and it’s probably his favorite sound he’s ever heard. “Goodnight, Jake.” 

“Goodnight, Ames.” 

But she doesn’t hang up. 

He can hear her breathing. He fell asleep last night to the sound of Amy breathing next to him, and he thought that would never happen again. She’s not next to him, but her rhythmic breathing has his eyes drifting shut in seconds. 

“What are you doing?” He murmurs sleepily. 

She’s quiet for a moment, but he can still hear her soft breathing. She sighs. “I just…” 

“Hey.” He interrupts her lengthy pause, concerned at the sudden change. “What’s going on, Ames?” 

Her words are hushed, but not quite whispered. “I’m just really glad you’re okay.” 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.” 

“No, uh…” There’s another sigh, and he’s wishing he was with her, where it would be easier to gauge what’s going on in her head. “There was a minute when I wasn’t sure that you were going to be okay, Jake.” She takes a shaky, staggered breath. “There was—god, just, so much blood. And your eyes were closing, and you couldn’t look at me—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupts. He squeezes his eyes shut immediately. What a stupid thing to say. 

“But you couldn’t,” she repeats without missing a beat, her voice wavering. “You couldn’t. And I was so scared that I was gonna—” This time when she cuts off on a shaky breath, he stays silent, holding his breath as he waits for her to finish. Her voice is somehow even weaker. “I was afraid you weren’t going to be okay. And I just… I guess when I’m with you, or when I’m talking to you… it helps me keep those moments out of my head.” 

It’s good that she isn’t with him, because he can’t imagine that he’d be able to hear that confession, in that soft, emotional voice, and not immediately pull her into his arms. And as much as they found their way into snuggling in the middle of the night, he was pretty certain that starting the night out that way crossed a completely different line. 

“It’s stupid,” she mutters. “I’ll let you get off the phone.”

“No.” He responds way too quickly. “It’s not—don’t go. I was scared, too. For you at first, and then when everything started getting blurry, and I just… Stay.” He pauses long enough to take a breath that burns his throat. “Please, Ames.” 

It’s the closest he’s gotten to telling her how he actually feels, and there’s pure desperation in his voice, and it has his chest feeling tight in a weird sort of way. He knows that he should maybe feel embarrassed, but he doesn’t. He feels like she needs him, and he needs her right back. _Stay_ is really only a fraction of what he wants to ask of her, but that’s all he can manage before his heart starts feeling heavy, bearing the weight of all those unsaid asks, the secret of his feelings for her only dragging it down further.

“You don’t have to do that, Jake.”

“It would make me feel better if you didn’t hang up.”

There’s a long beat of silence that almost makes him regret his words. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he responds gently, relaxing into his blankets again.

“Goodnight, Jake.” 

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

And it’s not quite the same as falling asleep next to her, but falling asleep to the sound of her breathing is the next best thing. 

He isn’t sure, but he thinks she fell asleep before him. He remembers her breathing slowing, his own even breaths falling in the spaces between hers. The next morning, he wakes from a deep, dreamless sleep to a text from her. 

**ames:** Good morning! Sorry, I got up to start getting ready. I’ll see you at noon.

He holds the phone against his chest, smiling to himself. He still has another two hours before she comes over. He wonders what she’s doing right now. He wonders what she’s seeing. 

That leads him to his next thought. He’d seen green, orange, and blue all within the course of one day. Surely, after how happy he felt when he woke up, there must be a new color. This thought propels him out of bed and over to his window, excitedly checking to see if any new pops of color catch his attention. 

He looks out across the street, watching a handful of people passing by. He catches glimpses of color—the blue sky, a red hat, some green plants, an orange bag.

But there’s nothing new. 

He frowns, then turns and glances around his room. Nothing. He looks through his closet, his kitchen, and finally turns on the TV. Does happiness just not have a color? He swears that when he’d done all that research, he’d learned that happiness had its own color. 

Finally, he flicks through the saved images on his phone until he finds what he’s looking for. Sure enough, the page with all the colorful circles only has four visible colors. Nothing new. 

“Hmm,” he mumbles. Weird. He wonders if she’s seeing any new colors.

The thought mostly slips his mind by the time he’s ready and hears the knock on his door. It flickers through his mind once more when he opens the door, finding Amy awaiting him with an easy smile. No new color on her, but she truly doesn’t need one to capture all of his attention. If the entire world were full of color and she were the only thing that remained gray, he’d still only want to look at her. 

Their day starts out the way that many of their days do. 

“Oh my god, just because you don’t understand the significance or cultural impact of museums, doesn’t mean they’re,” she pauses to glare at him and wiggle her fingers to quote him, “‘lame,’ or ‘what kindergarten teachers should use to get kids to take a nap’.”

He laughs, trying his hardest to seem disinterested as she flicks through images of some pop-up museum in Albany. It actually does sound pretty cool, if only because Amy is excited about it, but it’s so much more fun to get her riled up about it. He knows if he pushes it just a little further, he’ll get a whole rant about the importance of museums, and he doesn’t get to see Art History Amy nearly as much as he thinks he deserves to. 

“Oh, damn it,” she frowns, interrupting before he can continue teasing her. “I guess I won’t get to tell you about it, because today’s the last day.” 

His eyebrows furrow as he watches her shrug, scrolling down to the next thing in her feed. 

“You won’t _have to_ tell me about it,” he corrects. 

She scoffs at him. “Jake, I don’t know how many times we have to have this conversation. Just because you think art is boring, doesn’t mean—”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “You won’t have to tell me about it, because we’re going to go see it today.” 

Now her eyebrows are wrinkling. “What?” 

“Today’s the last day.” He shrugs. “Let’s go.” 

She stares at him for a moment, her eyebrows drawn together, like she’s waiting for him to say he’s joking. When he simply raises his eyebrows at her, she shakes her head. “Jake, no. You got shot, like, two days ago. We’re not driving to a museum in Albany.” 

“Okay,” he rolls his eyes at her, “please don’t make me say it.” She raises her eyebrows at him, and he groans as he rolls his eyes again. “The bullet _barely_ grazed me. I think I can handle going to the museum.” 

She blinks furiously, like he’d said something to offend her. She leans in closer, and he’d be distracted by the smell of her shampoo (which smells way nicer than his, by the way), but then she’s holding her finger up in front of his face, moving it slowly back and forth, and he has no idea what’s going on. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Follow my finger,” she whispers. He raises an eyebrow, focusing on her face instead. “Do we need to go back to the hospital?” 

“What? Why? I had a concussion, like, two days ago.” 

“You just downplayed getting shot in order to convince me to go to a museum.” She doesn’t laugh even when his smirk replaces his confused expression. “You can’t be okay.” 

“Look, if you’re afraid this experience won’t prove how ‘extremely important and interesting museums are,’ then I get it. I mean, I would be embarrassed if I were you, too.” 

“What?” She scrolls back to the museum advertisement, flipping her phone at him so he can see the pictures. “That’s not the problem, look at these pictures. I just don’t think you need to sit on an hours-long car ride to go do something you’re not even interested in for my benefit after you _just_ got shot for me.” 

“Barely got shot for you,” he corrects. 

“Okay, I definitely need to call a doctor,” she repeats, pulling her phone back to herself to mime dialing the phone. “Is this an alternate universe?” 

“Shut up,” he mutters, leaning over and elbowing her. “I haven’t even taken any pain meds today. I’m totally fine to go, Ames. It’s a _museum_ , not a marathon. And yeah, this will be more painful than taking the bullet, but—”

“I can’t stand you.” 

_“But,”_ he continues, ignoring her dramatic eye roll, “it’s the last day of the museum, and I’m not going to let you miss it so we can sit around my apartment doing nothing all day.” 

“I’m perfectly fine with sitting around doing nothing with you all day.” 

He definitely catches the _with you_ in that sentence, and he has to dedicate a bit of effort to not grinning stupidly at her. “Great, then you can sit around and do nothing in the passenger seat with me on our trip to Albany.” 

“Jake.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes serious on his. “You really don’t have to.” 

“Look,” he pushes himself up off of the couch, then makes his way over to where his jacket is hung near the door. He rummages through his pockets in search of his keys. “I’m going to the museum either way, but I bet it would be way more fun if I had some nerd there who knew, like, way too much about art history and could show up any museum guide in the place.” He cocks his head to the side, like he’s deep in thought. “You know anybody like that?” 

“You’re the worst,” she mutters, but she runs into the kitchen to set her glass of water in the sink, then steps past him when he holds the door open, grinning back at him as he locks it. 

And that’s how they end up in the car on their way to Albany. 

They’re about halfway there, and it’s going better than he could have hoped for. He hasn’t thought about colors, or his future, or how bad he’d been feeling the day before. He doesn’t think about soulmates, or his feelings for her, or how everything seems to be stacked against him. He’s too consumed with the present, with singing songs off key with his best friend, with fielding jokes amongst them, with the endless stories that come with their roadtrips. He never runs out of things to talk about with her, and he’ll never get tired of it.

His carefree mindset comes to a screeching halt with a slip of the tongue and the chords of a particular song. 

“Let’s play I-Spy,” Amy suggests. 

And he’d been doing great, _great_ at keeping his secret. To his knowledge, he hadn’t even had any sort of close calls with Amy knowing that he’s seeing colors. He’s pretty good at avoiding the topic, at averting his eyes, at shoving his emotions down deep enough that they can’t see the light, much less any color. 

On a normal day, he never would’ve agreed to this. He never would have allowed himself to be put in this compromising situation. But they’d been having such a good time. His guard’s down, and he’s happy, and he _loves_ games, so his response is a quick, “I spy something square.” 

And for a moment, everything is fine. 

“I spy something tall.” 

“I spy something round.” 

“I spy something flat.” 

“I spy something wide.” 

But then… He’s grinning over at her as she squints her eyes, searching out the window for her next object, and he’s entirely distracted. So when she says, “I spy something blue,” he doesn’t think twice. 

“That car?” 

Famous last words. 

And then it doesn’t even register to him. She asked about a color, and he looked her right in the eyes and guessed something that’s the right color. Her eyes are trained on him, and he feels like he’s the only one who isn’t in on a joke or something. 

“What?” 

“You can see it?” 

And he _still_ doesn’t get it. “That big ass Mazda? Yes?” 

“No,” she replies softly, her eyes never leaving his. His skin is crawling. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but her attention is too much for him and he feels like he’s done something wrong. His eyes are straying uncomfortably back to the road. He’s replaying the last few minutes, trying to figure out what happened to make her look at him like he’s a ghost, and right before the word leaves her mouth, he realizes. “Blue.” 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

He’s trying to play it off, to look unfazed with her eyes _still_ on him, but he has no idea how to backpedal in a way that’s believable. He isn’t ready to have this conversation, doesn’t want to do this to her, and even if he _were_ ready, he sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen to do it while _driving to Albany._ He’s fumbling this, and she’s watching him fumble it, and he hasn’t said anything at all. 

“What? No.” He laughs quietly, like it's a ridiculous suggestion. “Of course I can’t see blue, Ames. You said a color and you know I can’t see them, so I just guessed the first thing I saw to be a smartass. Was that right?” 

She doesn’t buy it at all. He can tell by the arch of her eyebrow, the same arch he’s seen a thousand times while they’re working cases together. She’s piecing things together, arranging the evidence in her head, and he’s fucked. He’s about to have to confess everything to Amy while behind the wheel of his old ass car, with an hour left to get _to_ the museum (not to mention the actual museum and the two and half hour trip back to Brooklyn), and his eyebrows are furrowing because this is _not_ how this day was supposed to go. 

“Alright, my turn,” he continues. “I spy something… gray.” 

That gets him a little laugh, but the air is thick between them. The damage has been done. He’s not sure if she _knows_ , but she at least knows there’s something she doesn’t know. If she doesn’t press it now, she’s going to press it another time. He sinks back into his seat, propping his elbow up on the door and resting his temple on his palm, one hand slung leisurely over the top of the wheel. He knows she hates when he drives like that, and he expects her to chastise him for it, but instead, the only sound is the quiet music on the radio. 

And before he even has a chance to shrug off the Great I-Spy Debacle, the radio turns against him. He recognizes the song the second he hears the first chord. He glances over at her with panic in his eyes, and he can tell by the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s picking at her thumb, that she recognizes it, too. Changing it would be even more suspect than letting play. He holds his breath, glaring so hard at the street in front of them that he hopes he’ll burn a hole in it that he can just drive straight into. 

_Look at the stars,_   
_Look how they shine for you,_   
_And everything you do,_   
_Yeah, they were all yellow._

He swallows, any remaining amusement evacuating his face in favor of something more thoughtful. He glances over at Amy again, but she’s looking out the window, quieter than she’s been maybe ever. 

For a second, he thinks about singing. It’ll relieve some of the tension, he thinks. He can sing off key, and she might even smile and join in. But he knows what’s coming, and he can’t look at her and say _you know I love you so,_ even in this context. 

Because, ya’know… he might. 

All of a sudden, he’s not in a playful mood, and he doesn’t seem to be the only one feeling that way. He’s completely tuning the song out as he continues thinking about all those topics he’d been doing such a great job at avoiding. He and Amy had been having such a good day, and he loves spending time with her, and he knows that days like this with her are likely going to be few and far between as time goes on, and he just had to go and fuck this up.

This is such a stupid song, by the way. What does he even mean by _and you were all yellow?_ _That_ ’s a reason to go to the hospital, not wanting to go to a museum with your best friend. 

He’s torn out of his thoughts when Amy whispers something beside him. 

He blinks slowly. “What?” 

He spares a longer glance at her. She swallows, her attention completely out the window. “Yellow,” she whispers again. 

He’s still confused. “The song? Yeah.” 

“No,” her voice is still soft. “The flowers.” 

She points out the window, and he follows her gaze. Flowers. Hundreds, maybe thousands of sunflowers. But all he sees is gray. His eyebrows draw together. “They’re yellow?” 

She nods. “I’ve never seen it before. But I know—from the pictures, yellow always has sunflowers with it. It’s gotta be—” she takes a deep, shaky breath. “They’re so pretty, Jake. You can’t see it?” 

She knows. _She knows._ That’s why she’s asking, because he’s blown his cover, and she knows that he can see colors now. Except he really can’t see the color of the flowers, and that has him spiraling through his thoughts again. Why _can’t_ he see it? He thought he and Amy were kind of on the same schedule with this whole color thing as of late, but she’s seeing yellow and he _isn’t._ So yeah, _he’s_ surprised, but she shouldn’t be, and she _wouldn’t be,_ except that he’s an idiot and practically told her he could see the color blue. 

“No,” he finally replies. “They’re just gray.” 

“God, they’re just…” She pauses, and her breath is quiet and intense all at once. “I don’t even know how to describe them. They’re so beautiful. Like, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, maybe.” 

He barely resists his urge to scoff, but he manages. Then he’s shifting to exit the freeway, and Amy’s twisting around in her seat to look at him. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Going to the sunflowers.” 

“What? Why?” 

He shrugs, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “So you can take pictures with them.” 

Her eyes flicker over him, and for a second, he thinks she’s going to protest. Then she smiles, settles further into her seat, and looks back out the window. There’s a lot on his mind, but he can’t fight the smile that brings to his lips. 

Their sunflower detour doesn’t take long. 

He snaps a few pictures of her among the flowers, and she’s taken aback by how beautiful the scenery is, but he just can’t fathom how she could possibly think the flowers look prettier than her. Her smile is somehow even more radiant than normal. He’s not sure that he’s ever seen her this happy, and it has a series of emotions twisting around inside of him. He doesn’t remember ever liking someone the way he likes her—feeling this strongly about anybody else. He’s probably heading toward sulking, but before he can get there, she’s tugging on his arm. 

“C’mon,” she grins at him, and he’s just looking at her, willing to go along with her anywhere, no questions asked. She loops an arm around him, and he’s still looking at her, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion with a stupid grin, when she snaps the first picture on her phone. She laughs. “Selfies, weirdo. One day you’re going to be able to see yellow, and you can look at these pictures, too.” 

He rolls his eyes at her, but turns and smiles for the next picture. Once the picture is done, he scoffs, slips the phone out of her hand, and extends his arm out to take another one. He’s looking at her with a smile on his face, and she’s looking back at him with her eyebrows scrunched up.

“What!? My arms are longer. I can get more flowers in my picture.” 

She rolls her eyes, but tucks into his side, her hand that isn’t already wrapped around his waist coming up to hold onto his shirt. They both smile for another picture, and then he makes a stupid face and snaps one final picture where he’s sure she still looks just as perfect as always, and then they’re back on their way. 

To the car. Not to Albany. Because once they’re comfortably in the car, teasing one another like the Great I-Spy Debacle never happened, he finds that his stupid, stupid car—won’t start. He tries, and tries, and tries, but it just won’t turn over. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles, smacking his palms on the top of the steering wheel. “Stupid fucking car.” 

“Is everything okay?” She’s looking at him with concern in her eyes, and now that he’s frustrated, the pain from his stitches is feeling a little sharper than the dull ache it started as, and he’s wishing he’d just taken a pill in the morning like he should have. 

He sighs. “I don’t know. There was nothing wrong with it before.” He tries another time to start the car, but there’s no use. He’s not exactly a _car guy_ , if he’s being honest, and he doesn’t _love_ that being common knowledge, so he’s chewing on his lip and pacing outside of the car as he calls his insurance company to send a tow truck. He doesn’t even want to know how much it’s going to cost to tow it an entire hour back home, and then he’s going to have to actually get it fixed, so he’s definitely looking forward to adding onto his already exceptional debt. 

None of this is the worst part, though. 

The worst part is that the car is broken down, so they can’t make it to the museum. The car is broken down, so they can’t make it to the museum that Amy was _really excited_ to go to, and it’s the last day that the museum will be there. The worst part is that he’s letting her down. This was supposed to be a really fun day, and now they’re going to be sitting in his broken down car for who knows how many hours, and they’ll have to uber back home, and on top of that, his stitches fucking hurt. 

He leans against the car when he gets off the phone, too annoyed and embarrassed to face the idea of getting back into the car with her. A few minutes go by, and he’s contemplating getting back in when he hears her door open, then close again. He doesn’t look up as he hears her footsteps crunching on the gravelly pavement. She doesn’t say anything, she just walks around the side of the car. She leans against the car next to him without a word. He turns slightly, his eyes on her, but she doesn’t look up. She just stands next to him. 

“What are you doing?” 

She shrugs, but she doesn’t move. “Being here.” She finally looks up at him. He looks away, an aggravated sigh escaping him. “I can get back in the car if you want to be alone.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, it’s not—” He stops short, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just—this day was supposed to be fun, and now you’re not going to make it to the museum on the last day because of me and my stupid car.” He kicks at the pebbles on the pavement. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not like you knew the car was going to break down.” She maintains her eye contact on him, but he can’t meet her gaze. “And besides, there are tons of museums. I can miss one museum.” 

“But you wanted to go to this one,” he mutters, his hands finding their way to his pockets. “And now we’re just stuck sitting here. We would’ve been better off if we hadn’t even left my apartment.” 

“Jake.” She sounds sort of amused. He peeks back up at her from where he’d been looking down at his shoes. She holds his gaze for a moment before speaking, her eyes intense and serious on his. “There is no place I would rather be than right here with you.” 

He laughs softly. “C’mon, Ames. You don’t have to do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Act like hanging out with me is better than a limited-time museum exhibition.” 

She’s quiet long enough that he turns his head and stares back over at the sunflower field, half-sure that the flowers are going to miraculously turn blue in front of him. Her sigh next to him is soft, and he angles back toward her without actually looking at her. “I would have had way more fun at the museum with you than I would have if you weren’t there.” 

_“ Well yeah,”_ he shoots back quickly, earning himself an amused glare. “That was never a question, but now you don’t get to go to the museum _at all_ because of me.” 

“Okay?” 

“...Okay?” 

“I didn’t leave my apartment today expecting to go to the museum. I came to hangout with you.” Jake’s eyebrows furrow at that, and she rolls her eyes at him. “It doesn’t matter where we are, Jake. I’m not concerned about missing out on some stupid museum. I’m just happy you’re okay, and I’m happy to hangout with you. Wherever we are.” 

He swallows, his eyes flickering over her face. “Thank you.”

She shrugs. “Any time.” 

“That’s what friends are for?” He nudges her with his elbow, laughing at the cheesiness of the whole situation. 

Her laughter sounds a little hollow. “Something like that.” He makes a face at the odd quality of her laughter, but before he can comment on it, she’s speaking again. “Okay, c’mon. We’re not just going to stand here until the tow truck comes.” She steps away from the car, turning and spinning in a slow circle to check out their surroundings. “I bet you I can find the prettiest sunflower.” 

He scoffs at her. “I can’t see the color of them, Ames. That doesn’t really seem fair.” 

“Oh, so he’s scared? Not feeling up to the challenge?” She’s backing away from him, toward the sunflowers. 

“Who gets to be the judge of the best flower? We’re the only people here.” 

“I guess we’ll just have to vow to vote honestly and not just in our own best interest.” He’s reluctantly following her as she continues backing away, an adorable smirk on her face. “We only get to pick one flower each.” 

“We only get thirty minutes to make our choice,” he tacks on. 

“Great.” She pulls her phone out, barely glancing down to set the timer. “Time starts when we get to the field?” 

He quirks an eyebrow at her, his soft laughter interrupting the silence. She stops, tilting her head inquisitively. Without warning, he rushes past her, sprinting toward the flowers. “Time starts now!” 

“You’re a cheater!” She shouts from behind him, running to try and catch up. 

“I have to even the playing field somehow!” 

They branch off in different directions, inspecting their own rows of flowers. He wasn’t keeping track, but he would bet that approximately five minutes had passed before he completely gave up on looking for a flower in favor of messing with Amy. The game became less about finding flowers and more about finding ways to stop each other from finding a flower. He’s hiding and popping out of the flowers to scare her, and she’s plucking petals out of flowers that he looks interested in, and then he’s chasing her, and she’s hiding from him, and when he reaches through the flowers from the other side and startles her, it leaves them both falling between sunflower stalks, laughing so hard that they can’t breathe. 

“I was trying to scare _you!”_ Amy shouts between her laughter. 

“I watched you go in the flowers!” He attempts to get out from between the flowers he’s stuck in, but gets caught on a different flower and slumps backwards again. Amy laughs even harder at that, which has him laughing more, too. 

After a few minutes of trying to catch her breath, Amy finally stands up, extending a hand toward Jake to help him up. “How much time do we have left?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I don’t know. You’re the one who set the timer.” 

Amy’s eyebrows wrinkle up. “But you said _time starts now.”_

“Yeah, I meant ‘start the timer now.’” 

Amy blinks at him. “So you didn’t set a timer?” 

“No. You didn’t?” 

“No! I thought you did!”

“Why would I set a timer when you had already set a timer?” 

“Oh my god. So how long have we been doing this?” 

Jake shrugs, looking over to confirm that the tow truck still hasn't arrived. “I don’t know. The tow truck was set to arrive within two hours, so… Less than two hours probably.” 

Amy scoffs, shaking her head at him. “Okay. _I’m_ setting a timer. Five minutes of serious flower searching, and we call it. Sound good?” 

“Sounds great!” Jake turns to start looking for his flower, but he stops on his heel and turns back around to face her. “Oh, Ames? I’m not setting a timer, so you might want to actually start yours.” 

“Shut up,” she mutters, but she’s laughing as she walks in the opposite direction. 

They meet up five minutes later, each holding their own flower. Jake holds his behind his back, mischievous smirk in place as he looks her flower over. “That’s what you’re going with?” 

Amy rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, because I’m sure your flower is _so much_ prettier.” 

“Actually,” he begins, flourishing his wrist as he pulls his flower out from behind his back, “I like yours better.” 

“Are you joking?” She’s looking at him like he’s an idiot, eyes flickering between his face and his flower. “Look at how much bigger and prettier your flower is!” 

“No, c’mon,” He waves his hand dismissively, then gestures at her flower. “Yours is so cute and little. Way better.” 

“Jake, there’s no way—how did you even find the biggest flower in this field? It’s insane—”

“It’s not _that_ big—”

“And the petals are so bright!” 

“Ames, these two flowers are the exact same shade of gray.” 

“Okay, you _clearly_ win.” 

Jake scoffs. “No! We get to vote. And I vote for your flower.” 

“Well I’m voting for your flower.” 

“Well—who wins then?” 

“I guess we have to wait for the tow truck driver to get here, and we can ask him to vote.” 

“Fine,” Jake concedes. “I’ll schedule the Uber, and hopefully the tow truck comes before the two hours is up.” 

“Uh… Jake?” 

He looks up from his phone. “Yeah?” 

“Tow truck’s here.” 

He looks up to confirm and—yeah, the tow truck is here. He frowns. “Well. The next Uber can’t get here for… another forty-five minutes. So… That’s good.” 

“I mean, yeah. But on the bright side…” Amy holds up her flower, grinning. “The driver can name you the winner of the sunflower contest.” 

“He’s not going to—” 

Amy’s smile shuts him up as she takes his flower out of his hand and takes off toward the tow truck. He swallows, shaking his head and once again wondering why he can’t see the color of the sunflowers as he follows behind her. 

“Excuse me, sir?” She teeters toward him as he hops out of the side of the truck. “Can you settle an argument for us?” 

The man regards her with bored eyes, then glances at Jake and rolls his eyes. “What’s up?” 

“Which one of these flowers is prettier?”

He makes a face. “I don’t know. That one?” He points at Jake’s flower. Amy turns on her heel to face Jake, a proud smirk on her face. 

“I told you.” 

“Oh c’mon. That’s not even… We need another opinion, let me take a picture and—”

“Just accept that you won.” 

She’s smiling at him again, and he can’t help but to lose himself when she’s looking at him like that. “Alright, fine. What do I get for winning?” 

“I guess you get to keep the flowers.” She’s still grinning as she presses the flowers against his chest, waiting for him to take hold of them. His hands brush against hers as he takes them from her, and their eyes are still locked when the tow truck driver clears his throat. 

“So, uh, I’m takin’ this car, right?” 

“Oh, god, yeah, sorry,” Jake shakes his head, walking over to give the man all the information he needs. He watches as the man loads the car onto the back of his truck, partially because he’s not sure the car is even repairable after all the times it’s been in the shop, and partially because he isn’t sure what happened with Amy a few minutes earlier. He’s had feelings for her in some capacity for a while, but it didn’t used to be this difficult to keep a little bit of distance between them. 

“So…” Amy begins as they watch the car pull away. “Now what?” 

“Well, I figured we could just—” Jake kneels down to sit on the ground, but when he leans his weight on his left hand, the pressure sends a shooting pain up into his shoulder. He winces, shifting quickly to get the weight off that side. He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it in and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” She’s suddenly down on the ground next to him. 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m fine.” 

Amy scoffs. “You are not. Is it your shoulder or your stitches?” 

He peeks at her from between his eyelids, his eyebrows furrowed. “Both.” 

“Why didn’t you take a painkiller earlier?” 

“It didn’t hurt earlier.” 

Amy sighs. “If only somebody had thought to grab the bottle of painkillers before we left.” She reaches into her purse, searching for a second before she pulls out the little orange pill bottle. 

It’s such a simple thing. 

He shouldn’t be this touched by it. She knows him really well, knew he was going to need them—of course she did. It’s a friendly gesture, rooted in her desire for him to not be in pain. That’s all it is. He’s looking at her like she wrote and directed Die Hard or something, and he can’t wipe the look off of his face. 

“I, uhm…” He shakes his head. “I can’t take a painkiller. They make me fall asleep.” 

“That’s fine. I’ll be here.” 

“No, I know, but…” He shakes his head again, watching as she opens the bottle and pours a pill into her hand. She holds it up to him. “But then I’ll be asleep, and not only will you not get to go to the museum, but I won’t even be here to hangout, because I’ll be sleeping.” 

“Jake. Will you please take one of these pills so you’re not in pain?” 

“We can’t break it in half, so I’d have to take a whole one.” 

“If you’re worried that I’ll leave you here when the Uber comes, I can assure you that I won’t. Or, if I do, I’ll at least tell Boyle where you are first.” 

“Ames—”

“Jake, c’mon. Unless you’re planning on ending our friendship in the near future, I’m not going anywhere. There will be other opportunities to hang, and it would be much more fun to hang out with you if I wasn’t worrying about you being in pain the whole time.” She looks at him seriously, and he looks down at the ground. “Peralta, please.” 

He holds her eye contact for a moment, then holds his hand out for the pill. She smiles at him, then passes him her water bottle she’d grabbed from the car before it was towed. 

“Ugh, water?” He makes a face, but uses the water to swallow the pill, frowning dramatically at her when he’s finished. “Not only are you drugging me, but you’re _hydrating me.”_ He mimes gagging, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Always making your life better, what can I say?” 

He rolls his eyes at her like he doesn’t agree. Like it isn’t the truth. 

For a second, he thinks maybe this time is different. He thinks that the pill isn’t even making him sleepy. He’s talking to Amy, and they’re laughing, and everything’s normal. 

And then, all of a sudden… it’s not. 

“Just lie down, Jake,” Amy murmurs. 

He shakes his head, his eyes barely peeking open at her. “I’m okay.” 

“You’re not.” 

“I’m am.” 

“You’re are?” She laughs, and it’s his favorite laugh. The soft, warm one. The friendly, caring, teasing one. His eyes open a little wider to watch her. She’s smiling at him, her dark waves tousling slightly with the breeze. She’s so pretty—god, he wants to keep looking at her, but it’s so hard to keep his eyes open, and he just wants to do what she says. “C’mon. Why don’t you nap for a few minutes before the car gets here, while you can still stretch out?” 

“I don’t need to nap. I’m not even tired.” He’s laughing quietly, because he knows without even opening his eyes that she’s grimacing at him. “I’ll sleep a little in the car, okay?” She doesn’t say anything, so he starts talking again. “I don’t want to fall asleep and get abducted by our weird Uber driver when he comes. I’m too cute to be that irresponsible, Amy.” 

She scoffs. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too. You’re definitely the most at risk if we have a weird Uber driver.”

“Hey,” he mutters. “I’m vulnerable. Besides, you’d kick his ass if he came after you.” 

“I’d kick his ass if he came after you, too, dummy.” 

Jake whines quietly. “Don’t call me dumb, Amy. I’m on drugs that you gave me.” 

“You’re on prescription drugs that your doctor gave you.” 

“Mhm.” He sighs quietly, his head lolling to the side a bit. “That’s what I said. S’peer pressure.” 

He isn’t sure exactly how many minutes pass before he hears Amy’s voice, a sort of faraway quality to it. “The car’s here.” A moment goes by where he doesn’t move, and then she’s gently touching his arm. “Jake, wake up. The car’s here.” 

“Mmm?” He opens his eyes, confused when she’s standing up next to him, offering him her hand. “I wasn’t sleeping.” 

She laughs quietly. “Just get up so I can get you in the car.” 

He takes a deep breath, then nods slowly, accepting her hand and letting her pull him up with her. He stumbles into her a little once he’s standing, and her soft laughter brings a smile to his face. She keeps a loose grip on his arm, helping him to the side of the car, opening his door, and standing there anxiously as he wobbles into the seat. She’s already in the motion of shutting the door when he slides over to the other side of the car, making space for her. 

“No, if you’re over there then your hurt shoulder is going to be leaning against the door when you fall asleep.” 

“I’m not going to fall asleep,” he argues. 

She crosses her arms, not an ounce of amusement in her expression as she looks at him, waiting for him to give in. He doesn’t. 

“Are you getting in the car or not?” The driver finally grumbles, glaring back at her. 

Jake doesn’t try to hide his smirk as she rolls her eyes and climbs into the car. And he isn’t going to fall asleep. He _isn’t_. 

At least, he isn’t _planning to._ He got that little nap before the car came, so he thought he was in the clear. And for the first few minutes, he’s totally confident. But then they get back on the freeway, and it’s a straight shot, an even pace, and he finds his eyes drifting shut as he watches their surroundings blur past his window. 

“Jake,” he hears her murmur. He hums softly. “Hey, Jake.” 

His head is leaned against the window, and he turns slightly to peek at her. She’s craning toward him, and he’d really like to ask her what she needs, but instead, he closes his eyes again. She makes a quiet sound, and he can’t tell with his eyes closed if she’s annoyed or amused. There’s a gentle tug on his arm, and he doesn’t even have the energy to resist if he _wanted to_. He doesn’t want to. He simply lets himself be tugged closer to her, leaning his head on her shoulder and nuzzling into her hair when he’s close enough. 

“You’re going to be even more sore if you sleep against that door the whole way home.” 

He pulls back at that, his eyes blinking wildly as he tries to focus on her. He’s sleepy, and she’s pretty, and he’s hit with a rush of warmth for her. His best friend, his favorite person, his _soulmate_ —she’s so kind, and caring, and funny, and _Amy._ She’s so Amy. The corners of his lips turn up into a soft smile. Then, without warning, he’s leaning closer to her. She tenses for a moment when his head lands in her lap, but only a few seconds go by before she’s relaxing again. He nuzzles closer, his hand coming up to grip the outside of her thigh the same way he holds his pillow. One of her hands rests against his upper back, and he’s out before he can even decide that it’s a bad idea. 

When he wakes up again, he’s in a panic. The car just jerked to a stop, unbeknownst to him, and he’s clutching at Amy, completely unaware of where he is. His breath is in his throat, and he’s snuggling in closer, hiding his face against her leg, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place in his head. He sucks in a sharp breath when he moves funny and feels a weird pull in his shoulder. Amy’s hand starts moving on his back, a gentle motion between his shoulder blades. He squirms a little bit, trying to get comfortable and shrug away the anxiety that’s tugging at all of his senses. He’s about to sit up, because he just can’t quite relax, then Amy grounds him with one simple motion. 

Her hand is still on his back, but her other hand finds its way into his hair. Just a few short days earlier, her fingers were pushing through his hair as he experienced what he thought was death, and he isn’t quite sure how it could be more comforting in this moment than it was in that one. Her fingernails are brushing against his scalp, and her fingers are gently twisting through his curls, and she’s comforting him. His grip on her leg loosens. She’s soothing away the stress and the panic, and he’s asleep again before he can even hear her whispered _it’s okay._

The next time he wakes up, the hand that was previously resting on his back is gently shaking his shoulder. 

“Jake?” She shakes him again, the hand that had been playing with his hair pushing the curls back from his forehead as she leans forward to get a better look at his face. “Hey, wake up, we’re home.” 

He’s comfortable, and he knows that home means Amy’s leaving, and he doesn’t want her fingers to leave his hair, doesn’t want his head to leave her lap, doesn’t want her to leave him. He doesn’t want this moment to end. 

But it has to. 

He nods, inhaling one deep breath before slowly pushing himself up to sit, stretching and rubbing at his eyes. She stretches, too, and he’s grinning sheepishly at her by the time she looks back at him. 

“How long was I out?” 

She climbs out of the car, stepping back so he can follow suit. “Including the sunflower field nap? A little under three hours.” 

“Three _hours?!”_ He’s feeling a lot less drowsy now—especially after hearing that he’d been knocked out for three hours. He climbs out, shutting the door behind him and watching as the car pulls away. “How is that even possible? We were only like an hour away.” 

“Yeah, in New York City during rush hour with—by the way—a crazy ass Uber driver. He didn’t try to abduct you, but he also didn’t abide by traffic laws _at all.”_ She rolls her eyes, glaring at the corner where the car had already turned. “Which didn’t get us back any faster, but _did_ scare the shit out of you while you were sleeping.” 

There’s a quick beat of silence, and Jake’s brain hasn’t really caught up to his body yet, so he’s scrambling trying to think of something to say—anything to prolong the moment, to keep a little more time between him and his empty, quiet apartment. 

“Alright, c’mon,” Amy interrupts his floundering. For a second, he thinks she’s going inside, but instead, she pivots and walks to her car. He just barely catches a glimpse of the green sunflower stems as she puts them in her backseat. He follows behind her, an eyebrow raised. 

“C’mon where?” 

She answers as if it had been obvious. “Breakfast.” 

He pauses, still looking just as confused at her bright smile. “I’m sorry… What time did I fall asleep? Is it morning?” 

She scoffs, rolling her eyes at him from where she’s now part way in her driver’s seat. “No, but when was the last time you had Kellogg’s waffles?” 

His hand slaps against his chest without his permission. He doesn’t miss a beat in making his way to the passenger’s side, and he’s in the seat before her door is even closed. 

“Extra whipped cream,” she continues. 

“And the blueberry syrup, _ugh.”_ He squints his eyes at her for a second. “But you don’t have to act like you’re doing this for me. We both know you want a spinach and cheese omelette.” 

“Okay, first of all,” she pauses to check her mirrors, “I would _never_ go to Kellogg’s without you. And second, I don’t want the spinach and cheese omelette nearly as bad as I want the—”

“Chocolate milkshake,” he interrupts. “With an extra cherry.” 

“So you can have one, too.” 

He smiles down at his lap, then looks out the window. “Thank you, Ames.” 

“This isn’t for you,” she reminds him. “I had to nurse my ego after you chose a prettier sunflower than me.” 

He turns to glance at the sunflowers in her backseat, hoping to be surprised with a new pop of color. They’re still gray. “I still think yours is prettier.” 

“How you can be a bad loser _and_ a bad winner is beyond me.” 

He rolls his eyes, laughing softly. 

All in all, he decides, he can live with this. He can live with friendship, and stupid games, and diners that they only go to with each other. He can live with the teasing, and the comforting, and the joking. He can live with just friends. He’s sure of it. 

And yeah, maybe he’s watching the way that the orange-y glow of the sun is hitting her, and yeah, maybe he’s never wanted to kiss another person so badly in his _life_ , and yeah, maybe it’ll be challenging at times. 

But her friendship is worth the challenge. Amy is worth the challenge, and he loves her friendship more than anything he can think of at the moment. 

_Well,_ he thinks, watching a slow smile spread across her face, though her eyes never leave the road, _almost anything._

He’s not just content. He’s not just accepting his reality. He’s _happy_. He’s so happy that when his orange soda arrives at the table, he only falters for a second when he sees that it is, in fact, orange—not just orange flavored. He’d ordered for both of them when they sat down, grinning over at Amy when she added a side of fries at the last minute. 

When their drinks arrive and Amy murmurs, “it’s orange,” his soft smile doesn’t fade away even as he pretends that he can’t see it. 

“Well duh, Amy. It’s orange soda.”

A lifetime of pretending is worth a lifetime of her friendship.

He can do this. 

_He can do this._

He keeps repeating the thought. _He can do this_ , as she plucks her extra cherry off the top of her milkshake and holds it out for him, as she makes a face and laughs at him when he bites it right off the stem instead of taking it out of her hand, as she steals hashbrowns from his plate instead of eating the fries that she swears she didn’t order just because she knows he likes them more than the hashbrowns. (He does like the fries better, but he also likes the way that they pick off of each other’s plates instead of just switching sides). 

_He can do this_ on the way home. As she grins at the road in front of her like she doesn’t know he’s looking at her, as she turns the radio up, as she rolls the windows down a little bit to let the cool air in. Her waves are wild in the wind, and she’s his favorite image, but _he can do this_. He can also look away. He _doesn't_. But he _can._

 _He can do this_ as they ascend the steps to his door. Amy has their sunflowers in her hands. She’s a step above him as she turns to discuss his prize, but the closeness seems to take her by surprise as much as it does him. They’re face to face, and she’s normally a few inches shorter than him, but now they’re standing at almost exactly the same height. She begins to speak, but then her eyes are on his, and her words seem lost. From the corner of his eye, he sees her adjust her grip on the flowers, and it takes everything in him to stop his hands from meeting hers there, from taking the flowers out of her hands and gently setting them on the steps—from lacing his fingers with hers and finally telling her everything. 

Her eyes flicker to his lips for a fraction of a second. It’s so quick that for a moment, he thinks he imagined it. But then she inhales softly, and he’s both seconds and centimeters from closing the distance between them, because _she feels it, too._ His eyes are on her lips, and he’s trying, _trying_ to form a coherent thought, but he wants to kiss her, it’s all he can think about, and, he suspects hopefully, it’s what she’s thinking about, too. 

But that's _insane._ Doesn't make any sense at all. He _is_ imagining things—he has to be. He and Amy are just friends. Amy and Teddy are soulmates. He can hope all he wants, but that doesn't change his reality. Kissing her won't change anything at all. At least not for the better. He has to get a grip on himself. 

He swallows. “Sunflowers,” he finally manages the only breathless word his brain will provide him with. His voice is as weak as his self-control, but the soft word does the trick. Amy clears her throat, stepping to the side to make room for Jake to come up a step. He doesn’t, choosing instead to take another step back, to keep a little distance between them. 

She feels it too, but it doesn’t change anything. 

“Yeah, sunflowers,” she whispers, clearing her throat again. She looks down at them, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You’ll have to put them in water.” 

“I want you to keep them,” he interrupts.

She narrows her eyes at him. “You won the competition. They’re yours.” 

“Exactly.” He takes them out of her hands, doing his best to ignore the way their fingers brush together. He holds them close to him for a second, then presses them back into her hands. “They’re mine, and I’m giving them to you.” 

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t shake off the grin. “How about we each take one? You take the prettiest one, and—”

“Deal,” he murmurs. He takes her smaller flower out of her hands, maintaining his smile when she rolls her eyes fondly at him. 

“I work tomorrow, but I’ll see you at work on Tuesday?” 

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, _barely_. Holt says I’m stuck on desk duty.” 

She shrugs. “At least you’ll have a nice view.” 

Of her. It’s a joke, but it’s not. He offers her another dramatic eye roll, though his words sound just as genuine as they are. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” 

She grins at him. “Goodnight, Jake.” 

“Goodnight, Ames.” 

He stands outside his door, watching with a smile on his face as she makes her way back to her car, his sunflower in her hands, and slowly pulls away. Once she’s pulled around the corner, he makes his way inside, still smiling to himself as he sets his gray sunflower on his kitchen table. He’ll put it in water later. 

He’s already in bed, grinning up at his ceiling, when he gets a text from her. 

_ames sent an image_

His smile widens as he opens the message, but as soon as the images load, his smile washes away. 

They’re the pictures from the sunflower field. Jake grinning at Amy, both of them smiling at the camera, Amy tucked into his side like she belongs there. He laughs softly at the final image, finding that Amy’s making a face that rivals his stupid expression. 

The only difference is that now… the background isn’t gray. 

He practically sprints back out of his bedroom, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the yellow flower contrasting against the dark gray of his table. 

He finds himself humming as he fills an empty pitcher with water. He carries the pitcher to his kitchen table, trying to center it as perfectly as he can. He puts the flower in the pitcher, fluffing the petals until they’re just right. He snaps a quick selfie in front of it, grinning and pointing to the flower behind him. 

He’s still humming as he traipses back into his bedroom, immediately looking at his phone when it vibrates. Amy sent back her own selfie, pointing at her yellow flower, poking out of a blue vase. He laughs softly to himself. He doesn't think twice as he sets the new picture she sent him as her new contact image. A few words of the song he was humming slipping out of him as he makes his way back to his bed. 

_"And it was all yellow."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yellow - joy, happiness, excitement


	7. indigo (when you're walking backwards)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jake has some ragrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will never stop saying the word regrets like ragrets,,, thanks we're the millers. one of my many toxic traits. 
> 
> anyways PRESIDENT ELECT JOE BIDEN
> 
> after this brief intermission, please enjoyyyy

It’s been three months. He’d watched as the green that he’d become so accustomed to had burned into bright oranges, yellows, and reds, faded into the blurs that rustled past him and now crunched beneath his feet with each step. 

Three months since he’d seen a new color. 

Things are fine. 

He can do this. 

Three months since he’d first resolved that he can do this—and he _can_ do this. 

Most days, he thinks that he can. 

Some days… 

Some days aren’t so simple. 

He can’t do this. 

He wants to so badly, but he simply cannot. 

He _can’t_.

He’s tried, and he’s tried, and he’s tried, but he can’t do it. Sometimes he really, really thinks that he can. He wants to believe that he can. They have good days, days where he forgets about colors and feelings and his empty future. There are days when the sinking feeling doesn’t even touch him. There are days when it all feels so easy. Some days, he almost manages to forget that things are different at all. He sees colors, but it’s normal now. It doesn’t always capture all of his attention when she wears his favorite pink shirt, or when she comes in with a new shade of lipstick, or when her nails occasionally have a different color on them than they did the day before. Yeah, it captures _some_ of his attention—but not all of it, and he thinks that should count for something. 

Then there are days like today. Days where he thinks back to the day he first started seeing colors, back to what his life was like when it was all just shades of gray. He thinks back to how stupid and naive he had been, thinking that one day he might see colors with someone, that it might not only be enjoyable, but that it might be the best thing that ever happens to him. He thinks back to the melancholy creeping through every nerve in his body as he dragged himself to work that next morning—hungover, disappointed, and broken-hearted. 

He thought things felt so bad that day. When Amy started seeing colors with someone else, he thought that was the worst of it. 

_Ha._

The worst of it, it turns out, comes months later. 

The worst of it is watching Amy and Teddy together _in color._ Seeing Teddy’s stupid green sweater as he wraps an arm around Amy, seeing her white teeth contrasting against her pink lipstick as she smiles at him. When it was all black and white, it was so much easier to ignore. 

Now he can’t look away. 

He wants to be able to do this. He wants to be friends with her. He _loves_ being friends with her. 

But he can’t quite navigate this terrain. Everything is fine, and they’re working together and it’s great, just like old times, and then she laughs at him, or she teases him, or she does one of those stupid little dork dances, and he’s back at square one. He’s not sure how to do this, but he _can._ If he tries hard enough, he can. 

Right?

The good days are worth all the bad days, he thinks. Even if there are more bad than good. He does everything he can to surround himself with good days, to forget the bad. 

Drinking makes it worse. It only took a handful of trips to the bar with her around for him to figure out that after a few drinks, longing turns to craving turns to _needing_ , and then what’s typically just a quiet ache in the back of his mind becomes less quiet and begins to resemble despair more than disappointment. He has two settings when he’s drunk around her: _Self-Pity_ and _Teddy Doesn’t Exist_. No matter how much longing, or craving, or needing, or flirting Jake drunkenly does, his hopes will go unsatisfied. 

Alcohol isn’t the only thing that causes dissonance between them. Things aren’t easy like they used to be. There’s a level of resistance between them that causes one of them to pull back in moments that would have felt normal just a few short months ago. It’s like there’s some sort of unspoken rule between them. Remain close friends without getting _too_ close. It’s an alright plan, albeit impossible for him to achieve. 

He misses the effortlessness of friendship with her. He misses the ease of just hanging out with his friends. He misses falling asleep with a dizzy smile on his face after a long night of laughing with them—with _her._

Mostly, he misses her.

Once he makes the mistake of drinking around both of them. Turns out that the only thing worse than seeing Amy and Teddy in color is seeing Amy and Teddy in color when he’s seven drinks deep. He still can’t look away, but now all their blurry movements have his mind in overdrive, thinking about what is and what isn’t, what could’ve been but can’t be, what used to be and what is. He can’t resist the urge to torture himself. He hates it, and he hates himself. He hates soulmates, and he hates Teddy, and he hates the quiet ride in the back of Charles’s car, and the silence of his apartment where he can’t wash the image of Teddy’s arm around her waist out of his head—no matter how long he stands under the scalding water in the shower. 

Most days, he can lie to himself. 

Some days, he simply can’t. 

Slowly, the days go on, and on, and on. Each day, his lies feel a little more see through. The echoes of _I can do this_ somehow morph, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop hearing that insistent _t._ I can’ _t_ do this. 

He can, 

and he can, 

and he can,

until one day, that _t_ sneaks in there. 

He can’ _t_. 

And no matter how persistent he is, the _t_ is one step ahead of him. 

He pushes on, because what else can he do? 

He stops drinking around the squad, because drinking around her is simply not an option anymore. He realizes that he’s no longer capable of handling himself around her when he’s drunk. It turns out that the logical part of his brain completely dissolves when he feeds it whiskey—or vodka, or tequila, or even beer, he’s found through much trial and error—and he’s left with Gina elbowing him in the side when Amy steps away from the table, muttering for him to _pull it together, Pineapples._ He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, because how could he when the only thing he’s paid attention to for the past forty-five minutes is the consistent laughter that he keeps pulling out of Amy, on the way that her arm brushes against his when they’re both laughing, on the way that her eyes have been aimed only at him?

That’s also how he finds out that Gina’s onto him. She doesn’t know that he’s seeing colors, but she does, apparently, know that he’s, as she phrased it, _completely head over heels for her, and normally I’d be into you messing up Amy’s boring relationship, but I don’t really feel like seeing you get hurt right now—and they’re soulmates, Jake._

Like he needed that reminder. 

So Jake plus Amy plus drinking equals flirting, which inevitably ends with him aching and hurting and _wishing_. Always wishing. And that makes things harder for him, and he’s _trying_ to have more good days. He doesn’t expect to have a _majority_ of good days, but if he could at least make the frequency of good days about equal to the bad ones, that would be cool. 

So… he just stops. But then that isn’t going to work, because Amy’s eyes flicker over at him, her eyebrow raised in silent question when he refuses a drink on three separate occasions. And then it’s weird, and she wants to know why, and he can’t exactly just tell her (though Charles glares at him knowingly each time he doesn’t take advantage of an opportunity to do so), and he runs out of good excuses after only the second time, so then he’s _pretending_ to drink around her, which is just a whole new added layer of pretending on top of all the pretending that he’s already used to. These days he’s feeling less like a detective and more like an actor—albeit a bad actor, who despite his efforts can _not_ nail the role of _someone who isn’t in love with Amy._

When they’re all together, he has a beer in his hands at all times. He’s perfected the art of pretending to drink, of shuffling bottles around the table so that he can look like he’s nursing the half empty one that actually belongs to Rosa, of waiting until Amy’s eyes leave him to exchange his full bottle for Charles’s empty one. He doesn’t get any more attention than normal, he has some sense of reason, and he has at least _some_ ability to tear his eyes away from her. 

Then everything seems normal and his thoughts and feelings can stay tightly wrapped in the back of his mind where he’s forcibly shoved them. 

It sucks. And most of the time, he hates it. He hates what he can’t have, what he’ll never be able to have. 

But he loves the moments he gets. 

The comfortable, silent car rides on the way to a crime scene in the morning. The jokes, and the teasing, and the easy conversation. Her friendship, while coming nowhere close to what he really craves, is still one of the most fulfilling things in his life. 

And _yeah._ Maybe even those moments are laced with their own problems. His eyes flicker over to her hand on the center console during those car rides. He wants to lace his fingers with hers, wants to see the sleepy smile that she sometimes shoots his way every now and then. The lulls in conversation are always different. Sometimes he’s left grinning at her like an idiot. Sometimes he’s left wanting nothing more than to kiss the frustrated pout off of her lips. It’s a toss up, and all that he knows for certain is that he’ll be left wanting. 

He’s _always_ left wanting. 

But he can do this. Despite his situation, he can do this. 

She’s happy. That’s what matters most to him. He tries his best to avoid talking about Teddy—because, ya’know, the existential dread of being alone for the rest of his life tends to seep into his bones in a really unforgiving way when he does—but sometimes he can’t resist. He wants to know how she’s doing. He wants to know that he made the right choice in not telling her. 

And… he did. 

Teddy treats her well. _Jake_ doesn’t exactly see what’s so great about him—except, okay, _maybe_ the fact that he actually takes advantage of the 401k that they’re offered, whereas Jake’s might actually be _negative_ on that account. Is that possible? He should look into that. He’ll give it to him. Teddy’s boring as hell, but Jake knows Amy. Amy’s life won’t be stressful with Teddy in it. She’ll have everything she deserves. 

And he’s happy for her. 

But fuck, if she was going to be soulmates with somebody else, it could have at least been somebody a _little_ cooler. 

Regardless, he can do this. 

He’s still trying to shrug away that stupid _t_. Every now and then, he manages. He still feels hopeful most times, despite his situation. Hopeful for _what_ , he’s not so sure, but hopeful nonetheless. 

He can _do this._

Until he lets his guard down like some kind of idiot. 

He can’t do this. 

Not if he’s this careless and stupid. 

That’s the first thought in his mind when he watches Amy step through the threshold of Shaw’s.

Jake is four drinks in. 

Amy wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Normally, he’d ignore Charles’s eyes on him, and he’d grin and wave at her. 

Today, he grits his teeth, his eyes aimed straight at his fifth beer, still almost entirely full. 

He can’t do this. He knows how he gets around her when he’s drinking. He _knows_.

She catches sight of him across the bar, and the familiar smile it brings to her face tugs at something in his chest. He doesn’t have a choice. His lips curve into a smile without his permission. He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he _can’t_ —but she’s sliding into the booth next to him, and he’s sliding over to make room for her. Enough room. _Just_ enough, because he knows that if he slides over another inch, her arm won’t brush against his at all. He should slide over that extra inch—but he doesn’t. 

“Amy? What are you doing here?” He hears Charles ask the question, but he’s just watching her. She waves at Hank, who waves back and gives her the typical _just the regular?_ eyebrow raise. She nods in his direction, then focuses back on Charles as he continues. “I thought you had a date tonight?” 

“Yeah.” He shouldn’t notice that her eyes flicker over at him almost apprehensively before she says Teddy’s name, but he does. “Teddy got stuck at work, so we had to reschedule.” 

“Wow, poor Teddy.” The acid in Jake’s tone isn’t very well disguised, and both Amy and Charles raise their eyebrows at him. His eyes flicker down, chasing a drop of condensation across the edge of his bottle. He shouldn’t have another drink. 

But then, he’s already drunk. 

So fuck it. Right? 

He takes a long pull of his beer, fighting himself to tone down his distaste as he continues. He shrugs. “Long days suck.” 

“Yeah.” She shrugs a shoulder, and he resists the urge to frown. She looks sort of dejected, her eyes aimed down at her fingers on the table. “I kind of got the feeling he didn’t really want to go to the gallery anyway.”

“Well then he’s an idiot.” 

Once again, Amy and Charles are both staring at him. He’s garnered some attention from both Rosa and Gina, too, who had been previously involved in their own conversation. 

“Because of the art,” Charles cuts in, practically glaring at Jake. Jake nods, eyes trained on the damp label he’s started nervously picking off of his bottle. Typically, Charles doesn’t mind covering for Jake—but Charles _hates_ cleaning up Jake’s messes when it comes to Amy. He’s already dreading the _you should’ve just told her_ conversation he’s sure to get tomorrow when he’s sober. 

“Yeah,” Jake murmurs dully. “Because of the art.” 

There’s a beat of awkward silence at the table. Jake doesn’t look up to see the four sets of eyes that are undoubtedly still pointed at him. 

“Thank you,” Amy murmurs when Hank brings her drink over. He slides a few new bottles across the table to everyone else. Jake’s eyebrows furrow as he mutters his own thanks. He knows he shouldn’t have another drink, but he’s feeling defeated. This was supposed to be a fun, carefree night, but instead he’s more stressed about Amy than ever. She shifts in her seat as she takes off her jacket, her thigh bumping against his. He swallows his better judgement as he takes another sip. 

“Anyways…” Gina narrows her eyes at Jake. “I know what’ll make Mr. Moody feel better.” She ignores his glare. “Quarters!” 

Amy scoffs. “You know we’re not allowed to play Quarters here anymore.” Jake turns to look at Amy, and sure enough, she’s smirking at him. “You know, ever since Peralta’s infamous Buffalo Slider Incident.” 

He chokes out a laugh. _“My_ Buffalo Slider Incident? I definitely remember it being the Santiago Slider Incident. Which—also—sounds way cooler.” 

“Rolls right off the tongue,” Charles agrees. 

She completely ignores Charles, her eyebrows wrinkling up. “You’re the one who threw the quarter.” 

“Yeah, because you bet me that I couldn’t bounce it into Scully’s glass from across the table. Which, by the way, I could!” 

“But… you didn’t?” She turns more toward him, her knee bumping against his thigh. “You bounced it and completely lost it, and five minutes later, some guy across the bar started choking on the quarter in his slider.” 

“Could’ve been unrelated.” 

“And _I’m_ Detective Terrible Detective?” 

“I would _never_ take that title from you, Ames.” She rolls her eyes at his smirk, but he notices the slight curve of her lips. “Look, I’m just saying, if it was a crime, it was clearly coerced. I’ll admit that I was your accomplice, but I won’t go further than that.” 

“If anything, I was _your_ accomplice.”

“So you admit that you were an accessory—”

“Okay, dumb and dumber. Shut up before I choke one of _you_ with a quarter.” Gina huffs. “We’re playing Never Have I Ever.” 

“I don’t want to—” 

“Shut up, Jake. Never have I ever been punched by Gina Linetti.” 

He glares at her, his eyes never leaving her face as he sighs and takes a drink. Charles frowns, then takes a drink, too. Rosa laughs. 

“Never have I ever tripped during a chase.” 

“Ha _ha,”_ Jake hisses, rolling his eyes at Rosa as he takes a drink. “Glad we all think that’s so funny.” 

“The video was pretty funny,” Amy defends. Jake scoffs, and they all look to Charles. 

“Never have I ever burnt a meal while cooking.” Everyone at the table takes a drink. Charles gasps. “What? _All of you?!_ God, you’re monsters. Just let me teach you—”

“Never have I ever,” Amy interrupts an exasperated Charles, “called off of work and lied about the reason.” 

“Pff, lame,” Jake mutters. She elbows him, barely suppressing her laugh when he chokes on his sip. Jake gasps dramatically, turning toward her. “Never have I ever tried to murder my friend.” Nobody drinks. Jake gasps again, even louder than before. “Take a drink, Ames. You just tried to choke me.”

“I didn’t try to choke you—”

“You elbowed me and I choked. Intent could be argued.” 

“That doesn’t—”

“I mean… he _could’ve_ died,” Charles cuts in. 

Amy stammers for a moment before Rosa interrupts. “Just take the drink, Amy. It’s not like you’re gonna be drinking to most of the questions anyway.” 

Amy narrows her eyes at that, but sighs and takes a sip. 

The next round goes about the same way, their questions all mild. It’s not until Jake’s next question that things take a turn. 

“Never have I ever seen every Nancy Meyers movie.” He watches with a grin as Rosa flexes her jaw. 

“Who’s seen _every_ Nancy Meyers movie?” Amy asks, a little giggly after finishing her first drink. “Aren’t there like fifteen?” 

Jake stifles a laugh as Rosa’s jaw tenses further. She glares at him as she takes a sip. Amy raises her eyebrows at Rosa, but doesn’t dare question her. She and Jake share a look. A _how did you know that?_ and a _you’re welcome_ are silently exchanged between them. 

Rosa glares at Jake all the way through Gina’s next question, and her eyes don’t leave his for a second when it’s her turn again. “Never have I ever had a sex dream about a coworker.” 

Jake chokes on the breath he’s taking, coughing and sputtering. Everyone’s staring at him, and nobody’s drinking, and he’s only partially sure that he can cover up his sip by saying _he just needed a drink after choking_ , which he isn’t technically lying about—and _god_ , Rosa’s a dick. He’s going to be the only one drinking, and they’re all going to want to talk about his dream about—literally— _fucking Amy_. 

He almost wants to kiss Charles when he takes a sip. Everyone pivots and stares at Charles for a moment, eyebrows raised curiously. So yeah, they’re still going to ask about Jake’s dream—but at least he won’t be the only one. He isn’t sure if Charles is just covering for him again or if he really had a sex dream about someone they work with, but he’s grateful regardless. 

He almost chokes again when Amy squeezes her eyes shut and raises her bottle to her lips, all in one quick motion. His mouth goes dry at the mere _possibility_ that it’s about him, and the fact that she hasn’t so much as glanced at him is only making his heart thump faster in his chest. His brain is a tangled mess of half thoughts as he glances over at Rosa, who’s staring at Amy slack-jawed. He takes his own drink, under the impression that since _two_ people have also had drinks, he’s safe. 

He’s wrong. 

Amy’s attention shifts to him the second he grasps his bottle, and he hasn’t even swallowed his gulp—because he needs more alcohol the second her eyes shift to him—before the words are leaving her mouth. 

“Wait. About _whom?”_

“I think it’s about _who,_ Amy.” He deflects. 

“It’s definitely whom,” she replies without missing a beat. “You’ve had a dream about somebody we work with?” 

He scoffs. “I have tons of dreams, Amy.” 

“Who was it?” 

He chuckles, taking another sip because he needs something to do with his mouth before he says something stupid with it instead. “Nobody.” 

“Rosa?” 

“No—”

“So Gina, then.” 

“Ew, Ames, that’s like sleeping with my _mom.”_

“I did practically raise you,” Gina interjects, earning another eye roll from Jake.

“So…” Amy looks around the table. “It wasn’t…” She glances at Charles, then at Jake. “It’s someone from the squad? Or just someone from the precinct?”

“It’s—” He stammers. “I didn’t—Amy, it’s nothing. Isn’t it Charles’s turn?” 

“You had a sex dream about me.” It isn’t a question so much as it’s a statement. She’s saying it like it’s a fact. He wants to say no, but then the only follow-up that isn’t a complete lie is _I’ve had_ several _sex dreams about you_ , so instead he just rolls his eyes and takes a third swig of his beer. “Jake Peralta had a sex dream about me,” she repeats as if she’s mulling the thought over. 

“Okay, I didn’t—” He sighs heavily. “I didn’t have a ‘sex dream,’” he holds up air quotes at her, _“about you,”_ he defends. His final words are mumbled more than spoken. “I had a sex dream, and you just happened to be in it.” 

She’s laughing that soft, pretty laugh that always makes him smile. He’s fighting the twitch of his lips with everything in him. “I can’t believe you had a dream about fucking me,” she murmurs softly, and he’s too drunk to hear her say the words _you, fucking,_ and _me_ in the same sentence. “Tell me about it. Was it good?” 

“Yeah,” he responds immediately. It’s meant to come off cool, but it comes out much more matter-of-fact. “Of course it was good. I was in it.” 

She shakes her head at him, her white teeth peeking out as she grins at him. “What happened?” 

He’s hesitating and stammering again. He can’t—he’s not going to _detail_ his sex dream about her to her face—especially not in front of their friends. He can feel his face heating up just at the images the conversation is conjuring in his mind, and that’s _without_ saying them aloud. 

“It’s just a dream, Jake,” she continues, her voice lowering in an attempt to coax him into sharing. Her voice alone has him fighting off a shiver. The corner of her lips tugs up, and she has this delicious smirk on her face, and _fuck_ , this is not how he planned on this night going. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

He stumbles over his words. “I didn’t—I’m not—who was _your_ sex dream about?” Her eyebrows pull together immediately. She resorts to taking another sip of her own drink. Rosa and Gina are watching the mess unfold in front of them across the table, Rosa looking more smug than ever. “Who was it, Santiago? You have a dream about Holt?” 

“What? Ew, no. God—Jake, that’s so unprofessional.” She shakes her head rapidly, her voice creeping to a whisper. “He’s our _boss.”_

“So who was it, then? It’s just a dream, right? Tell me about it.” He pauses for a second, enjoying watching her squirm more than he’d admit out loud. “Should I list everyone off?” 

“Mine was about Jake,” Charles interrupts. 

Jake and Amy don’t turn away from each other just yet, but their faces both scrunch up. Jake slowly turns to face Charles. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Yeah. You remember that time I came in and asked you and Rosa if having a sex dream about someone means you’re attracted to them?” Jake _does_ remember this. He remembers it because after Charles walked away, Rosa asked why he had been so quiet during a conversation about _sex dreams_ of all things. That’s what led Rosa to ask him, _what, you’ve never had a dream about someone weird before?_ to which he nonchalantly replied, _I mean, I had a dream about Santiago once._ That day is exactly what led them to this question. Charles shrugs. “The dream was about you.” 

There are a few beats of silence. Charles and Jake stare at each other with eyebrows raised, everyone around them dumbfounded. Rosa clears her throat. 

“Sorry I asked.” 

“Uh… yeah,” Gina murmurs, her own eyebrows scrunched. “Charles, you’re banned from—”

“No, c’mon, I have a really good one!”

Gina glares at him for a moment, then rolls her eyes and waves her hand at him. “If it’s not good, you’re buying the next round.” 

“Okay,” he grins, and Jake and Amy share another glance, both raising their eyebrows and shrugging at each other over Charles’s weirdness. Again, he can’t tell if Charles just saved him, or if the dream was really about him—but either way, the discomfort has dissipated between Amy and him. He grins and shakes his head, eyes flickering back over to Charles. “Never have I ever had a crush on someone at this table.” 

This time Gina chokes, but it’s because she’s laughing.

Jake’s smile washes away from his face. He hopes his glare across the table says exactly what he’s thinking. _What the fuck, Charles?_ He resists the urge to sigh, pushing forward and taking a long pull of his beer once again. He wipes his mouth with the heel of his palm when he’s finished, then rolls his eyes at Charles. “You should probably take a drink, too, considering you were basically obsessed with Rosa a few years ago.” 

“Oh yeah,” Charles squeaks like it’s news to him. “I forgot.” 

He takes a drink, and then before Jake can even turn to look at her, he sees Amy raising her bottle to her mouth again out of the corner of his eye. His eyebrows pull together when she looks at him. 

“Who?” She asks. 

Jake swallows. “Gina. When I was seven.” It’s not a lie. 

“In his dreams,” Gina laughs. “He’s lucky I let him follow me around like the lost puppy he was. Where would our sweet Jake be now if not for that little crush?” 

Jake ignores Gina. His eyes are still on Amy, who had glanced over at Gina while she was speaking, and is now returning his eye contact again. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to say who her crush was on. 

“Well?” Charles finally interrupts, but neither of them break their eye contact. “Who was it, Amy?” 

He watches her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath. “Jake,” she says softly. He swallows. Neither of them look away. He’s pretty certain that if he puts his hand up in front of him, it would physically be stopped by the tension between them. He’s too drunk for this. Her eyes are too sparkly, and he can’t look away. “You know, uhm…” She breaks their eye contact, looks down at the table, and the tension dissolves at once. “When I first transferred. Before we really knew each other.” 

He nods, turning his head away. He takes a drink. Of course. That tracks. She had a crush on him, and then when she got to know him, those feelings were gone. His heart sinks, that blue-gray cloud looming further into his head. He can’t just be quiet, though. That would look weird. He laughs quietly, but it sounds forced even to him. “You had a crush on me,” he teases, grinning at her and nudging her with his elbow.

“You had a sex dream about me,” she shoots back. He’s silenced once again.The range of emotions rushing through him are enough to shut him up, that little reminder just the icing on the stupid cake. The initial excitement of her confession quickly gives way to disappointment, which lands him in a weird, pensive place that he doesn’t like to be in when he’s—how many drinks has he had now?

“Your turn,” Rosa points at Amy. 

The game doesn’t last long after that. Jake doesn’t really drink much for the rest of the game—partially because he doesn’t really feel like playing, and partially because he’s too stuck in his thoughts to really hear the questions. But it’s fine. He’s fine. 

Everyone separates a bit when the game ends. Gina and Rosa go off to play a game of darts. Charles sees someone who taught a cooking class he once attended, so he branches off to discuss tortellini. Jake’s still quietly nursing his seventh—or is it eighth?—beer, his eyes not really flickering over to the only other person left at the table. 

“What’s your deal, Peralta?” She finally asks. 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?” 

“Why are you being so quiet?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing to say.” 

_“You_ have nothing to say?” He shrugs, then begins picking at the label on his bottle again. There are a few moments of silence between them that he wouldn’t exactly categorize as comfortable. “I’m sorry,” she begins again. He looks up at her, a crease in his brow. “If I made you uncomfortable. About the sex dream thing, I mean.” 

He shakes his head, waving his hand at her dismissively. “You didn’t—” He shakes his head again, looking down at the table. “It was just a dream, Ames.” His eyes flicker back up to hers. “It means nothing.” 

“Yeah,” she nods her head slowly, swallowing and looking down at the table. “Means nothing.” 

A few more tense, quiet moments pass. He sighs. “Are we good?” 

Now it’s her turn to furrow her brow. “Are we good?” She flashes her palms up toward the ceiling. “I don’t know. You tell me. You’ve been acting weird since I got here.” He doesn’t say anything, so she sighs. “Like, the Teddy thing? What was up with that?” 

He huffs. There’s another long pause, Jake attempting to glare a hole through his beer bottle. He sighs again, hesitating with the words he wants to say. 

“I just miss you, Amy.” He stares at the table for a long moment, then slowly glances back up at her. “We haven’t really been hanging out like we used to, and I miss you. And if Teddy doesn’t want to go to some art gallery opening with you, he’s an idiot.” He should stop there. But he’s had somewhere between six and ten drinks—he can’t remember—so he continues. “He’s lucky to get to spend time with you at all. It shouldn’t matter where you are.” 

When he looks back up at her again, she’s smiling sadly at him. “I miss you, too, Jake.” His heart twists at the sincerity of her gaze. “I’m sorry we haven’t been…” She trails off, seemingly searching for words. “You know, things have been kind of…” She shrugs. 

“Yeah.” He nods at her. He doesn’t really have the words for it either. It’s like they both know. They know there’s something, but they’re not exactly in agreement on what the something is. They’re definitely not in sync like they used to be. Their friendship isn’t effortless for either of them like it used to be—and that’s led them to spending less and less time together over the past few months. 

“We’ll make time,” she assures him. He nods again. He doesn’t expect much. That’s just something you say in a moment like this, a moment where you’re too intoxicated to really think through what you’re saying. “Hey, Jake.” She grips his bicep, her eyes serious on his face. “We will.” 

His eyes flicker down to her hand, then he looks back up and holds her gaze for a moment. He wants to kiss her. Usually it’s a little thought tugging at the back of his mind. Right now, it’s overwhelming. He nods slowly, his eyes straying down to her lips, then flickering back up to her eyes. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Her fingers slowly slip down his arm, finding their way back onto her lap. He maintains his eye contact, every thought in his head dedicated to closing the distance between them. Charles saunters back over to the table, his high insinuating voice aimed at them. 

“What’s going on over here?” 

Jake clears his throat, finally scooting over that extra inch away from her—he needs that extra inch of space to try and clear his head. “Nothing.” It’s the combined look from the two of them that keeps Charles quiet. 

For a second, Jake thinks it’s going to be tense and awkward again. Instead, it feels just like old times. Rosa and Gina make their way back to the table, and everyone’s laughing, and they order a few appetizers to pass around the table, and it’s just like things were before they started seeing colors. She texts him a joke, and when he replies, the picture of them making faces at each other at the sunflower field flashes on her screen. It’s his contact picture. 

And just like that, he can’t do this. 

He can’t do this because she’s so smart, and she’s so pretty, and she’s so funny, and her eyes are so sparkly when she laughs. He can’t do this because she looks at him like they’re the only two people in the room, even when they’re absorbed in a conversation that includes three other people. He can’t do this because she’s his best friend, and even before he started seeing colors, she meant more to him than anything else in the world. He can’t do this because she’s the most amazing person he’s ever met. He can’t do this because the desire to kiss her is starting to feel more like a compulsion, and he can’t fuck this up for her—he _can’t._

He can’t do this because he’s in love with her. 

But he’s missed this, and he’s missed her, and he hasn’t been this happy in a while. He isn’t ready to let it go yet. 

“Ames—” He begins, interrupting whatever his thoughts were preventing him from hearing Charles say. She turns to look at him, those big, dark eyes reflecting the warmth that he feels for her. He can’t do this. He takes a deep breath. He needs to say something before he loses his nerve. If he gets it all out there, he’ll have nothing left to hold back. Maybe things can go back to being effortless between them. Maybe something good can come from this. 

He’s going to talk to her. 

He _has to_. 

She smiles at him, her eyebrows scrunching curiously, and even though he’s about to make what may or may not be the biggest mistake of his life, the gesture calms him. 

Until over her shoulder he sees a stupid, tall man walk through the door in a familiar green sweater. 

Doesn’t he own any other sweaters? 

Then the moment is over, and there’s only a beat of discomfort before Amy’s following his gaze and grinning over at her boyrfriend—her _soulmate._ Then everyone’s sliding over in the booth to make room for stupid Teddy, and he’s lost that extra inch of space he had between him and Amy, and now she’s pressed all up against him, sandwiched close between Teddy and himself. He clenches his jaw and finishes drink-number-who-fucking-knows in one swift gulp. 

What was he thinking? He can’t _talk to her._ He drinks around her one time, and he almost fucks up seven months of dedication. 

Then he’s just annoyed. 

That’s all it is. Annoyance at stupid Teddy, who didn’t want to go to the gallery with Amy. Teddy, who apparently had something better to do than watching Amy’s eyes light up at each new painting she looked at. If Jake had the opportunity to be with her, he definitely wouldn’t be annoyed by doing things that she loved, that’s for sure. He’s not with her, and he _still_ can’t think of anything better than getting to be with Amy when she’s at her happiest like that.

Stupid Teddy, whose fingers brush against Jake’s shoulder as he wraps an arm around Amy. Teddy, who has everything he wants wrapped up in that stupid, green-sweater-clad arm, whose laugh gets under his skin each time he overdoes it when laughing at one of Amy’s jokes. Teddy, who grits his teeth each time Amy laughs at one of Jake’s jokes. 

Stupid fucking Teddy. 

It’s just annoyance—that’s what it is. It _isn’t_ that he feels stupid. He doesn’t feel stupid for feeling like there was something between Amy and him. He didn’t feel that way. And since he didn’t, seeing her smile and wave at Teddy definitely _wasn’t_ the dropkick back to reality that he needed. 

He’s too drunk for this.

He can’t do this. But he has nowhere to go. He _has_ to do this, because what other choice does he have? And it sucks, and he hates it, and his mind is racing again, thoughts and hopes and _feelings_ swirling around inside of him, but he’s going to be fine. He _will be._

And he would’ve been. 

He really would’ve been, except that he makes some stupid comment, some little reference to an inside joke between him and Amy, and Amy _loses it_. She’s drunk, and he’s laughing as he makes the comment, and her little giggles develop into full blown laughter, and then Teddy’s arm is slipping off of her and she’s leaning closer to Jake, and they’re both clutching at each other in all their laughter, but he doesn’t even think anything of it. Though it doesn’t feel exactly like the way things used to feel when Teddy’s right next to them, this moment is still just like old times. He has tears in his eyes from laughing so hard, and it takes a few minutes for their laughter to dissolve enough that they can both catch their breath. Teddy replaces his arm around Amy almost possessively, and it takes more effort than Jake would like to admit to not roll his eyes at the movement.

“Hey, Jake,” Teddy interjects. “What do you think of Amy’s—” He stops short, making a sort of face that Jake doesn’t quite understand. 

Jake gestures at him. “Of Amy’s…?” 

“Nevermind.” Amy looks at Jake, shrugging, and tilts her head at Teddy in search of more information. Teddy’s lips curve into a sort of smirk. He looks down at his pilsner. “I forgot you can’t see colors.” 

It’s the tone he uses. That’s what does it. He sounds smug. Like he _knows_. He doesn’t—Jake’s sure that he doesn’t. How could he? But he sounds like he does. He sounds like he’s fully aware that Jake is seeing colors—that he’s seeing them for Amy—that he has everything that Jake wants, craves, desires. Teddy has everything that Jake would give _anything_ for, and he’s taunting him with it. He has the strongest urge to punch him, but he’s almost positive Amy wouldn’t like that, so he grits his teeth, scoffing quietly instead. “I _wish_ I—”

He cuts off abruptly. 

He was going to say he wishes he couldn’t see colors. 

He can’t fucking do this. 

Jake flexes his jaw, eyes flashing down to the table, suddenly wishing that he’d ordered another drink. He doesn’t look up to see Amy’s wide eyes on him, and he doesn’t look up when he hears Amy’s voice. It’s a voice he knows well—the frustrated one. “I need another drink. C’mon.” 

“Why don’t you just flag the bartender over—” 

_“C’mon,”_ she hisses, interrupting Teddy’s suggestion. 

He doesn’t look up until she’s a few steps away, her eyes safely turned away from him. He glances around the table, all his friends’ inquisitive eyes aimed at him, and he remains silent. 

He can’t do this. 

He doesn’t say a word as he stands up. He doesn’t glance over at Amy and Teddy again. He simply stands up, grabs his jacket, and walks straight out of the building. 

He can’t do this. At the very least, he can’t do this _right now._ He slips out the front door, and the only reason he didn’t just dip around the corner and head straight for home is because he’s an idiot. 

He steps outside, his hands immediately shoving into his jacket pockets. He huffs out a heavy sigh, the chill from the night causing his breath to make a little foggy cloud in front of him. He leans back against the cold brick, clunking his head against the wall gently. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Then, a little sharper, _“Fuck.”_ A few seconds pass, and he’s just finally shaking the edge off enough that he thinks he can walk toward his apartment when the door opens again. 

“Jake?” 

His eyebrows furrow. He looks at her, another little cloud of breath escaping him. He shakes his head a fraction, then looks down at the sidewalk, his voice soft. “Amy.” 

Her hair is in loose waves, blowing around her shoulders in the breeze. She shrugs her jacket on, rubbing her hands over her biceps and stepping just a little closer to him. Her eyebrows are pinched together in concern, and even the little crease on her forehead is adorable. He wants to open his arms to her, to invite her into the warmth against his chest. He can’t. His arms stay stiff at his sides, his hands slipping back into the pockets of his leather jacket. 

“Are you leaving?” 

He looks down at his feet, his eyebrows threading further together. One of his shoulders shrugs up without his explicit permission. “I gotta…” The words die in his throat. He shakes his head. “Yeah.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

_Yes._ Yes, everything is wrong. She’s looking at him, her eyes trained on him like she really cares about him—and he knows, he _knows_ that she does—but sometimes he just wishes that she didn’t. This would all be so much easier if she didn’t. His entire world is spinning, and he can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the stress or the smell of Amy’s perfume making him so dizzy. 

“No,” he whispers. “Nothing’s wrong. I just…”

“Jake,” she interrupts.

“No,” he repeats. “Ames.” 

He’s pleading. He doesn’t know what for, but the desperation is clear in his voice. For her to stop, for her to keep going. For her to press him to talk about the one thing he can never talk to her about. His voice is raspy and breathless, but she doesn’t back down. 

“You wish what?” 

“I can’t—” He sucks in a sharp breath. He turns on his heel. He can’t do this. He’s going to say something he regrets. He can’t _do this._

But just as quickly as he turns around, her hand is on his wrist. He spins back around, surprised when he finds her much closer than he expected her to be. He takes another shaky breath. “Amy,” he begs. 

“You wish _what_ , Jake?” 

He shakes his head at her, his eyes flickering down to her lips once again. Her hand is still on his wrist. He opens his mouth, hesitating. They’re close enough that he can smell the whiskey on her breath. She had only been drinking beer at the table, so she must have gotten a shot when she stormed over to the bar with Teddy. He could do with something stronger than a beer right now—

—but he shouldn’t get that something stronger from her lips. 

“Was your crush really on Gina?” She tries instead. 

He swallows. “Who was your dream about?” 

“I asked you first.” 

“Ames—”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” he whispers helplessly. 

They’re staring at each other, and god, Jake wants to look away, but he _can’t._ She swallows. 

“Is that the only crush you’ve had on someone from work?” 

He knows she isn’t really hopeful. He knows that the hopeful quality in her voice was invented—a combination of his longing and the way that his thoughts are all spinning through his head. He _knows_ , but he hears it anyway. 

“Amy, please,” he whispers again. He shakes his head, clinging to the tiny part of his brain that has a semblance of togetherness. “Don’t…” He swallows, his eyebrow raising as he searches for an ending to that request. 

Her eyebrows pinch together again. Her hand slips away from his wrist, and for a second, he thinks it’s over. The weird, tense moment, the closeness, the danger. 

But then she reaches up, her fingers wrapping delicately around the edge of his jacket. She looks down at her hand, then her wide eyes are aimed back at his face. His lips part slightly because—just, what the fuck is happening?—and all reason evacuates his brain. The lights from across the street are reflected in her eyes, and she’s looking at him in a way that he thinks he’d have noticed if she had done it before. 

There’s another gentle breeze, and Amy’s hair blows into her face. She shivers at the wind, but doesn’t move. He’s moving before he can stop himself. 

He brushes her hair out of her face. The strands slip through his fingers as he tucks them behind her ear. That could’ve been all that it was, but then his hand lingers. She’s watching him, and he’s making decisive moves without having the wherewithal to actually be decisive, and then his fingers are framing her jaw, and his thumb is tracing against her cheek, and he should stop— _he should stop._

But then she tips her face toward his. 

He’s going to kiss her. 

She wants him to kiss her. And normally, other things would matter to him in this moment. Normally, there’s a line of defense in his head to stop his body from following through when thoughts like these hit him. 

Now all there is is alcohol. Alcohol and Amy, and he’s not sure which one has him more intoxicated. (If he had to guess—it’s Amy).

Still, he moves slowly. He gives her time to change her mind. His left hand stumbles as it makes its way to rest cautiously on her waist. Her hand slides up a little higher, fingers flattening against his chest and creeping their way up to the curve of his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows at her, a silent sort of _are you sure?_

She doesn’t pull away. 

His eyes are closed when he leans his forehead against hers. He can feel her breath against his lips, and _fuck_ , he wants to kiss her. He shouldn’t kiss her. She nudges his nose with hers, and yeah… he’s going to kiss her. 

Their lips are seconds from touching when the door opens next to them. 

Jake and Amy jolt apart, clouds of surprised, panicked breath leaving both of them. They both turn to see Teddy, eyebrows furrowed, staring at them. 

“Amy?” 

Amy turns back toward Jake, hesitating and searching for words. 

He’s a fucking idiot. This is exactly why he doesn’t drink around her. He can’t handle it. He can’t do this. 

“I…” Jake shakes his head, his eyebrows pulling together. He doesn’t even glance at Teddy. “I’m sorry, I…” He swallows again, trying to form coherent sentences, but he can’t find words, and he feels so stupid and sad and _ashamed_. He takes a few steps back. “I can’t—“ He hesitates, stumbling slightly when he takes another step. “I can’t be your friend.” 

And then he’s turning around and walking around the corner, not even toward his apartment, but he doesn’t even care. Anywhere but here. He tries to ignore Amy calling his name after him, tries to ignore the garbled sound of Teddy’s voice talking to her, tries to ignore the way that he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. 

He’s just like his father. He’s just like his father, and that’s not even the worst part of what he’d just done. 

The worst part is that he’d done it to Amy. 

Or is the worst part that she looked like she _wanted him_ to do it? Is the worst part the way that her hand felt against his chest, his heart hammering away underneath her touch? Is the worst part the way that she was leaning in, too? 

The worst part is that she wants this, he thinks. She wants him. 

Which means… 

The real worst part, the _real_ biggest mistake of his life… 

Was not telling her. 

He’s reeling, turning down streets with no regard to where he is, just walking, moving, retreating away from her with no real destination.

He didn’t tell her. 

He didn’t tell her that first day, when he dropped his cup of coffee at the shock of her red lips. He didn’t tell her when he tackled her to the ground, his fear of losing her altering his entire world for the rest of his life. He didn’t tell her when his heart thumped out of his chest, lying in bed next to her, nothing but the sound of their quiet, steady breathing between them. He didn’t tell her that next morning when she looked him in the eyes and asked if he could see the color on her shirt. 

He didn’t tell her when he fucked up a game of I-Spy, or any of the hundred times that Charles had tried to convince him that it was the right thing to do. He didn’t tell her as he accepted that this is all his life would ever be—just hopelessly falling for someone who he could never be with. He didn’t tell her as he sank further and further into the emptiness that he found within himself. He didn’t tell her when he woke up with a smile on his face and a sunflower on his kitchen table, the blinding yellow of the sun warming his skin almost as much as she always warms his heart. 

He didn’t tell her, and now it’s too late. 

He can’t tell her now. Now she’s months into seeing colors with Teddy. Now, according to all accounts he’s heard from her, their relationship is doing better than ever before. Now he’s missed his opportunity. He’s lost his chance.

But she _wanted him_. 

Which means that _if_ he had told her… If he had talked to her in the beginning, when this all started happening… Maybe it would’ve been _his_ arm around her at the bar earlier. Maybe he wouldn’t have been avoiding his friends for the past few weeks while he tries to get a handle on himself in her presence. Maybe he wouldn’t have been this empty version of himself, searching for meaning in a world where he will always be alone. 

And _that_ , is Jake Peralta’s deepest regret. 

He can’t just be friends with Amy. He _can’t_. It gets harder and harder every day, and it’s just a matter of time before he slips up again like he did tonight. It’s just a matter of time before he does something even more catastrophic. 

He’s never going to forgive himself if he ruins her life. 

At this point, he thinks he’s never going to forgive himself _when_ he ruins her life. It feels more like impending doom than a possibility. 

He’s stuck in this impossible place, because he can’t _not_ be her friend, but he also can’t _only_ be her friend—not if she _does_ have feelings for him. 

There he goes again, though. She doesn’t have feelings for him. She’s attracted to him, which, yeah, that’s been established. That has nothing to do with her feelings. She has _feelings_ for Teddy. She’s seeing colors for Teddy. 

She has a physical attraction to Jake. Which he gets, because he has a physical attraction to her, too. Of course. Obviously. 

But it’s so much more than that for him. 

He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful. He wants her fingers to be tangled with his underneath the table. He wants to make her laugh without Teddy’s eyes on him. He wants her in his bed again, her fingers wrapped around his bicep as she snuggles into his arms. He wants to be standing on his doorstep, her eyes flickering between his lips and his eyes. He doesn’t want to be wandering through the streets of New York at night, doesn’t want to be this sad, doesn’t want to be alone. 

He wants all her little moments that he’ll never get to have. 

He doesn’t blame her. He isn’t the obvious choice. He never was. In the beginning he annoyed her, and he teased her, and he competed against her. At some point, he started being there for her, too. Way before he had real feelings for Amy, he would’ve done anything for her. And it wasn’t until she was with Teddy that Jake realized the feelings he was having were _feelings_ —like _it’s not normal to think about your friends like this_ feelings. It wasn’t fair for him to say anything then. It definitely wasn’t fair for him to say something when she started seeing colors. 

And still… _still_ , knowing that all of that is true… 

He wishes he had told her. 

He walks for a really long time before he finds his way back to his apartment. He stumbles through the door, mentally and physically exhausted on top of being absolutely obliterated. He kicks his shoes off, lets his jacket drop to the floor, and flops down on his couch. 

He doesn’t fall asleep. For approximately two hours, he stays exactly like that—balled up on his couch, hating himself, thinking back on every wrong move he’s made in the past seven months. Finally, he groans. He rolls on his side, narrowly managing to stay on the couch with the movement, and that’s when he sees it. 

The gray hoodie he’d draped over his kitchen chair the night before. Apparently it wasn’t _actually_ gray—and subsequently probably looked stupid as fuck with the shirt he had been wearing with it. He huffs out a heavy sigh, pushing himself off of the couch and ignoring the queasiness that settles deep in his stomach. He snatches it off of the chair, inspecting it closely. 

It just looks blue. He wrinkles his eyebrows at it. It was _definitely_ gray yesterday. But it’s just blue. He could already see blue. Why is it blue now if it wasn’t blue before? Is he so sad that he’s somehow unlocked a _new_ shade of blue? He hadn’t been sad enough before, but now he’s so sad that the world compensated him for his trouble by giving him a new shade of stupid blue? That isn’t even his favorite color that he’s seen so far. 

He chokes out a dry laugh, because of course there’s somehow _another_ shade of blue. Would he just be left unlocking new shades of blue for the rest of his life? Just going lower and lower, hitting new levels of rock bottom, his world turning more and more blue as time goes on? 

He throws the hoodie in the closet, slamming the door a bit harder than felt necessary, and trudges to his bedroom in the dark. He strips off his jeans, his blue flannel, and the gray shirt that might actually be another shade of blue and not truly gray, and climbs into bed. 

He feels so small. He feels like _the time his mom took him to see the Empire State building when he was only like four_ small. 

He finds himself opening up their last text conversation. 

**ames:** Title of your sex tape. 

**ames:** Couldn’t say it out loud. You know, because Charles. 

**Jake Peralta:** wow ames i thought u swore off sextape jokes 4ever after what happened last time

 **Jake Peralta:** u came out of retirement for THAT?

He shakes his head, grinning to himself at the thought of her rolling her eyes and elbowing him when she’d read that text. Then he’s thinking about her eyes on his and his hand on her waist, about her face right after Teddy walked out, about her voice when she’d called after him. 

He’s just like his father. 

He doesn’t even think about it when he texts her. Perhaps he shouldn’t. Maybe she needs time, space. He’s sure Teddy won’t be thrilled if he’s still around to see that picture of Jake and Amy surrounded by sunflowers popping up on her phone screen at this time. None of that is on his mind when he hits send. 

**Jake Peralta:** i’m sorry ames 

She doesn’t reply. 

He doesn’t get much sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> indigo: regret


	8. purple (don't be afraid to close your eyes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jake sighs a lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it cute? is it lame? is it edited? 
> 
> read on to find out!

_If you don’t stop making that face, it’s going to get stuck like that._

He hears the echoes of his mother’s well-used warning in his mind, yet his eyebrows stay furrowed. His eyes keep flickering between the empty desk in front of him and his unanswered texts—the same way they’d been doing all day. 

When he first got to work, he immediately noticed her absence. It’s unusual for Amy to not be seated across from him when he strolls into the bullpen a few minutes late. When it _does_ happen, she usually emerges from the evidence lock-up a few minutes later. Occasionally he learns that she’d already made her way to a crime scene without him _(I wouldn’t leave without you if you’d show up on time)_. 

Today, he arrives his usual ten minutes late, apology coffee in hand ordered exactly to her liking. After fifteen minutes go by and he hasn’t seen her, he sends her a new text. 

**Jake Peralta:** hey. you ok??

He’s already starting to worry when Rosa catches sight of him. 

“Hey. What’d you do to Amy last night?” 

“What’d I—what?” 

“Santiago?” She asks, gesturing to the empty chair that he’d been trying not to stare at. He looks down at his desk, thinking back over the previous night with a frown. “What’d you do to her?” 

“Uh… What do you mean?” 

Rosa shrugs. “She went outside with you, and you guys were gone for a minute before Teddy followed you. And then Teddy came back inside and…” She pauses, shrugging one shoulder again. “Looked weird, I guess. Hard to tell with him. He always looks weird. He said Amy left, and he was going to head home with her. Not to worry. But I texted her and she—”

“Didn’t reply,” Jake finishes softly. 

“Yeah.” Rosa stares at him for a moment, waiting. “So what’d you do?” 

“I didn’t…” He trails off. “I have to go.” 

Jake’s pushing away from his desk before he can even see Rosa’s grimace. 

—

“Has it occurred to you,” Jake’s rolling his eyes before Holt even finishes his sentence, “that Santiago doesn’t wish to have your company?” 

He scoffs quietly. “Yes, that’s _occurred to me.”_ More times than he’d like to count. But if there’s one thing in this world he knows, it’s Amy. “But then I remembered that I’m awesome, and of course she wants my company.” 

Holt narrows his eyes. “Don’t you think if she wanted to speak with you, she would have,” he offers a patronizing shrug, and Jake resists the urge to roll his eyes again, “responded to your messages?” 

“I’ll come right back after—”

“We both know that’s not true.” 

“I just—” Jake sighs, leaning back in his chair. He’d rambled on vaguely about something being wrong with Amy, and Holt didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “I’m worried, and I would feel better if I could just make sure that she’s okay.”

“You can.” Jake’s eyes shoot back up from where he’d been staring at the floor. “When you get off work.” 

He doesn’t attempt to hide the eye roll that comes with this sigh. “Fine.” He pushes himself out of the chair dramatically. “But if you lose your second-best detective to a murder or accident that I could have otherwise prevented, I hope you remember this moment.” 

“She _called_ , Peralta.” 

“I know she called. If she hadn’t called, you would’ve let me go check on her because Amy being dead is more believable than Amy not showing up to work.” He sighs again. “But Amy doesn’t call off unless something’s really wrong. This wasn’t on her calendar, which I know because I pulled it out of her drawer and—”

“You shouldn’t go through your colleagues’ desks.” 

_“And,”_ Jake continues, “there’s nothing written on today’s date. We both know she’s not sick, because, ya’know, Amy never gets sick, so—”

“Six more hours, Peralta. You get off work in six more hours, at which point you can check in on her all you want. Perhaps you can contact Detective Wells if you—”

Jake’s scoff interrupts Holt. “Yeah, thanks, Captain. I’ll just check on her later.” 

He leaves Holt’s office without another word. He groans quietly when he slumps back into his own chair, scrolling back to their texts to find that she still hasn’t replied to either of his messages. 

He’s replayed the night before more times than he can possibly count. He’s incredibly aware that the last thing he said to her was _I can’t be your friend._

Not _I can’t **just** be your friend._ Not _I can’t be **only** be your friend._ Not _I want to be more than friends._

_I can’t be your friend._

He tried to kiss her, and then he immediately told her that he couldn’t be her friend. Then he left her with her boyfriend who just walked out and saw them mid-almost-kiss. 

So yeah, Jake _isn’t_ awesome, and she probably _doesn’t_ want his company. And he doesn’t blame her. 

But he’s still worried about her. He still knows her. And he still wants to check on her—if only to prove what he already knows: that she’s perfectly fine. She’s strong, and she’s smart, and she’s independent as hell. She doesn’t need him—or anyone else for that matter. 

But for his own peace of mind, and on the off chance that she _does_ actually need him… He just wants to check in. 

“Hey, Jake?” Charles rolls his chair over to his desk. “Can you sign off on the Wilkerson file here?” 

“Huh?” Jake’s torn out of his thoughts. “Oh—yeah, sorry.” 

“You okay? Something on your mind?” 

“Hmm?” Jake shakes his head. “No. No, I’m fine. Sorry, just…” He shakes his head, unable to come up with an ending to the sentence. 

“Oh. Not something. Some _one,”_ Charles corrects. 

Jake doesn’t even roll his eyes. “Have you heard from her?” Charles shakes his head, his lips curving downward. Jake’s sigh is almost desperate. “I don’t know what to do, Boyle.” 

Charles shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “Go to her.” 

He rolls back to his desk without another word. 

Jake wishes he hadn’t retreated like that the night before. He wishes he had stuck around to make sure that she was okay. He wishes that he stayed to make sure Teddy didn’t give her any trouble. He should have been there for her. 

Jake isn’t only decidedly not awesome. 

He’s a bad friend. 

He really does try to busy himself with work. It works for about twenty-five minutes. He only makes it another two hours before he’s in Holt’s office again. 

“Just hear me out—”

Holt sighs. “Are you going to get any work done today?” 

“Probably not,” he answers honestly. Holt blinks, otherwise stone-faced. “Sir, I just need to make sure that she’s okay.” 

“Detective Peralta,” Holt begins. He pauses, hesitating. “Jake… May I offer you some advice?” 

Jake clenches his jaw, but nods slowly. 

Holt leans forward slightly in his chair, clasping his hands on his desk. “I keep a good eye on my squad. I pay attention to the things that are happening around here. That is to say, I notice you. I’ve noticed that things between Detective Santiago and yourself have not been…” 

“Toit?” Jake offers, barely flinching at his cheap attempt at deflecting.

Jake smiles stupidly at Holt’s stoic, unchanging expression. “Why would that have been my word choice?” 

Jake shrugs. “You seemed like you were trying to find the right word.” 

“I’ve noticed some disequilibrium between the two of you,” Holt continues without regard to Jake’s assistance. He pauses again. “Peralta, I know that when you work closely with someone, it may feel—”

“Okay, I don’t like Amy,” Jake interrupts defensively. 

Holt blinks slowly. “I never said you did.” 

Jake looks down at Holt’s desk. There’s another sigh from across the desk. 

“If you must check on your partner, you may leave to do so.”

“Thank you, Sir.” 

“You are my two best detectives.” Holt holds Jake’s eye contact for a moment. “I don’t want to see either of you hurt, and I don’t want whatever happens in your personal lives to affect your work. Do you understand?” 

“Yeah, I got it Cap’n. Make sure Santiago’s not hurt and—” He cuts off when Holt manages to scowl at him without moving a single muscle in his face. He nods, his lips pressed into a tight line. “I understand, Sir.” 

“Good. Dismissed.” 

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, Jake’s out of Holt’s office.

“Hey,” he pauses at Gina’s desk. He might as well check with the only other person who definitely saw her the night before. “Have you heard from Amy?” 

Gina’s eyes flick up from her phone for half a second. “Who?” 

Jake scoffs, waving his hand dismissively at his oldest friend. He gets on the elevator without another word to anyone. He sends his third and final text to Amy before the elevator even reaches the lobby. 

**Jake Peralta:** chinese chicken salad?? 

Because he knows—he _knows_ —that’ll get her. Even if she’s mad at him, even if she doesn’t want to talk to him, she’ll play into Chinese chicken salad. 

He’s pulling out of the parking lot on the way to her apartment within minutes. She hasn’t replied, and he doesn’t think she’s going to, which means he’s all clear. 

He’s smiling fondly at the memory despite himself. 

_And lastly, a picture of you on the subway platform eating Chinese chicken salad with no shirt on._

He grinned over at her, even through the hangover from hell. _Ha. Well, last night was awesome—_

_You look like you need help._

_I look like—let me see that again._ He squinted, leaning closer, then shrugged. _I look like I need help._

She laughed in the moment, and that’s all there was to it. He’d completely forgotten about the whole thing, but the next time he found himself drunk texting her a string of nonsense, instead of silence, he received a response. 

**ames:** Chinese chicken salad??

 **Jake Peralta:** wjat???

 **ames:** Chinese chicken salad. Do you need help? 

And in his drunken stupor, he didn’t know what she was talking about. 

**Jake Peralta:** no dont wamt salad gross im slready drunk do u want me to puke santiago

But that next morning when he came into work with another unbearable hangover, Amy clicked her tongue at him. _I told you. Chinese chicken salad._ She slid a coffee across the desk to him, and he hid a smile as he took a sip. 

He understood immediately. And from then on, Chinese chicken salad was a two way street. It most often applied to drunken nights, a _Chinese chicken salad?_ offered when one of them reached out to the other and things looked like they were getting out of hand. Typically the response was a quick no from either side, but the unspoken agreement was that if they replied with a _yes_ , they’d be there to help. Receiving a yes was uncommon, but they’d both done it—and they’d both been there when it happened. 

Eventually, the system evolved into an occasional _Chinese chicken salad!!_ text when they needed help getting out of a bad date, or had been stuck at a parent’s house for four hours with no escape in sight, or when one of them was stuck in an otherwise uncomfortable situation. 

And then there was the other kind of Chinese chicken salad. The _I fucked up, and I should’ve followed your lead, and it’s my fault that we blew this case, and I’m sorry._ The _Chinese chicken salad?_ that meant _I’m coming over unless you tell me not to._ The _your dad’s a dick, and I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I already ordered a pizza, so should I leave it at the door or come inside?_

That kind of Chinese chicken salad had become their norm. 

That kind of Chinese chicken salad, in all the times that they’d been exchanging the phrase, had never received a response. Part of him is expecting this to be the first time that she replies to it, but when he makes it all the way to her apartment without a response, he decides that he’s probably safe. 

But when his knock at the door is also faced with no response, he’s left unsure. Maybe she’s _that_ mad at him. Maybe she’s so mad that—Chinese chicken salad be damned—she’s not speaking to him. Not even to tell him to leave her the hell alone. 

And he doesn’t blame her if that’s the case. 

But he also doesn’t want to believe that. 

So maybe, he thinks, she’s just not home. And if she’s not home, there are only a handful of places where she could be. 

He paces in front of her door for a moment, running his fingers through his curls manically. He’s allowing himself to get way too stressed, and if he takes a step back, maybe he can piece this all together. He knows her, after all. 

He grins to himself when he realizes that he knows _exactly_ where she is. 

_That_ is what brought him to a secluded beach in New Jersey, of all places. That’s what has him searching for her, because maybe he’d fucked up by not giving her the opportunity to make this choice for herself in the first place, but he isn’t going to make things worse for her by continuing to be a bad friend. She deserves better. She disappeared to _New Jersey_ , and nobody had heard a word from her. He clearly has a lot left to learn in his life—though he’s not exactly sure what the point of learning it all _now_ is—but he knows her. He _knows her._

She came to a lonely ass beach because she needed to think. She came to a lonely ass beach in _New Jersey_ because it’s far away from everyone she knows, and she needs to feel like she has space to work through whatever she’s feeling—which, if their colors are still lining up like they were in the beginning, he has to assume isn’t anything good. 

But he knows her. 

And if she’s feeling sad, she doesn’t want to be alone. Not really. Even when she says she wants to be alone, she wants him—not him, just _someone_ —at arm’s length. He knows because he’s been through so much with her. He’s seen all those sides of her, and he’s given her the space she asks for, and always, always, _always_ , she wants someone. And many of those times, that someone has been him. 

Their relationship has evolved a lot since he first met her. There was a time when he wouldn’t have dared to stay with her when she said she needed space. He would have looked away when he saw tears swimming in her dark eyes, and when her voice shook as she asked him to leave her alone, he would have apologized and made a run for it—both because emotion is hard and he’s always respected her. He never would have willingly gone out of his way to find her when he knew she was upset.

He isn’t sure exactly when the shift happened. He remembers one particular time, one particular case, where she just looked so _broken._ She’d disappeared after returning from a particularly difficult situation, and he’d gone off in search of his partner. He found her in the evidence room. Her eyes were glimmering with tears, and she shook her head, wiping her eyes when he walked in. Her voice was raw as she told him that she was okay, she just needed a second. And he always, _always_ walked away, gave her the space she needed. But instead… he pulled her into his arms. He was tense as he did it, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was crossing a boundary. To be honest, he couldn’t say for sure if that first time had been more to comfort her or as a means of comfort for himself—it was a bad case, and it had been a long week, and they had both seen better days. 

He pulled her against his chest without a word, and she didn’t tense like he thought she would. She melted into him, her arms winding around his middle. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, gently soothing her, whispering quiet _I know_ s against her hair. He held her for a few minutes as she cried, a few tears escaping him, too. Then they separated, sniffling and wiping at their eyes. She smiled weakly at him, and he returned the gesture. She punched him in the arm lightly, and they both laughed together as they made their way out of the room. 

They never talk about it. It’s just a thing that happens sometimes. _Rarely_ —but it happens nonetheless. It hasn’t happened at all since they’d started seeing colors. He isn’t sure if it hasn’t happened simply because there hasn’t been a reason for it or if he’d been avoiding being there for her in that way since all of this had started. 

They’re partners. They’re friends. They’re Jake and Amy. They’re there for each other. That’s what they do. 

A stateline isn’t going to stop him from being there for her—colors or not. 

Especially if her thoughts are swirling around her head the same way his have been the past few days. 

He hopes that this will help to return some normalcy to them. He wishes that normal was something different for them. He wishes he had done things differently. 

He wishes that he had told her. 

The smell of saltwater is practically choking him. In a normal moment, he might stop to admire the sunset blurring around him. Instead, he trudges on, hopeful that each step brings him closer to where she is. Each step he takes feels heavier and heavier. He sinks into the sand with each step, as if the hopelessness that’s settling in him is weighing down his legs. 

His mind is on a loop. _This is all your fault. You could have done things differently. She isn’t even going to want to see you. You should just turn around and go home._

He doesn’t turn around. He keeps going, despite the disappointment he feels each time his eyes settle on another empty expanse of sand. He keeps going because this _is_ all his fault. He keeps going because she deserves better than for him to turn around—even if they’re only friends, she deserves better. He keeps going because all of this—all these secrets and problems and feelings—has left him hurt and hollow and confused. He keeps going because she is the only person he wants to talk to, even though he can’t tell her any of it. 

His feelings are getting dangerously close to blue territory when he finally sees her. 

All alone, curled up on a blanket in the sand. There’s no one around in sight, just Amy, alone on a beach, her hands rubbing over her bare legs, which he’s sure are cold, despite the uncharacteristically warm temperature of the fall evening. The sun is setting in front of her, splashes of color fighting their way across the sky, blending with the blues of the horizon. He’s never seen anything quite this beautiful, yet his eyes are drawn solely to Amy. 

“Funny seeing you here,” he murmurs softly. 

Her breath catches in her throat, but she grins when she recognizes him approaching her. “You scared me, you dick.” 

“Bad enough that I can’t sit with you?” 

She looks around the beach, then lets her eyes flicker back over to him. She raises her eyebrows teasingly. “So many open seats, and you choose the one right next to me? What, are you obsessed with me, Peralta?” 

He rolls his eyes, flicking a little bit of sand onto her legs as he climbs haphazardly onto her blanket with her. He suppresses a laugh when she glares at him. “Sorry.” 

“You will be.” 

“Just shut up and come here,” he mutters, opening his arms up to her. She settles into his arms without a word, inhaling a deep breath and hiding her face against his chest. 

Everything is wrong—but this feels right.

“Thought you couldn’t be my friend,” she mutters.

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, I guess this isn’t the first time you’ve proved me wrong about something, is it?” 

She’s quiet for a moment. “How did you find me?” 

He laughs softly. “I’m just that great of a detective.” He knows her silence means she’s rolling her eyes. He laughs again. “You never stopped sharing your location with me.” They sit that way for a moment, just silently watching the waves. This isn’t the emotional hug he’s grown accustomed to. It’s just nice. He smooths his hand over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ames.” 

“For what?” She mumbles against him. 

He shrugs, but doesn’t say anything for a moment. The list of things he needs to apologize to her for seems endless—most of which she isn’t even aware of. “Being a bad friend, I guess. Last night. Saying I couldn’t be your friend. The… ya’know. And being so vague, and weird, and just…” He sighs, trailing off. “I’m just going through kind of a lot right now.” 

“Tell me about it.” She responds softly. 

A few moments of silence pass between them. He sighs again, more subdued than before. “I don’t think I can.” 

“You can tell me anything, Jake.” 

He laughs quietly. “I know.” He tucks his chin against her head. “But not this.” 

“Anything,” she repeats. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he shakes his head. A few moments go by before he breaks their silence. “What about you?” He gestures across the beach with his free hand. “New Jersey?”

The sigh that escapes her is anything but soft. “Right.” She shifts, resting even more of her weight against his side than before, which is exactly how he knows that whatever happened—it’s big. “So… I broke up with Teddy.”

For what feels like an eternity, there is not a single sound between them. Amy’s practically holding her breath, and his breath is caught in his throat, and all he hears is the crashing waves. His voice finally comes out much weaker than he expected. “You…? You what?”

She shrugs. “I broke up with him.”

“But I thought… he’s your… isn’t he?” She shrugs again. “What happened?”

She averts her eyes from him, glancing down at the sand that has spilled over the edge of her blanket. “He asked me to marry him.”

“So you broke up with him?”

“I just—” She cuts off, then sighs again. “Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know how to explain it.” She sighs again, her hands slipping from where they were holding onto his hoodie in favor of fidgeting in her lap. “And I ignored it for as long as I could, but… why should I?” She looks back at Jake again. “Why should I have to be unhappy or uncomfortable because he’s supposedly my soulmate? Like, soulmates are nice in theory, but it doesn’t really make sense that some unknown force can just tell me who I’m supposed to be in love with, and I’m just supposed to accept it. What if I’m just…” She blinks, then looks back down at her lap. “What if I’m just not?” 

Jake is quiet for a really long time after that admission. His arm wraps just a little tighter around her, his fingers tracing over her shoulder again. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Better, I think,” she murmurs. She smiles up at him. “Definitely better now that you’re here.” 

He lets himself smile, and he lets himself take that to heart, even though he knows he shouldn’t. She leans her head on his shoulder, and he rests his chin on the top of her head. He wants so badly to press a kiss to her hair, but he doesn’t. He just holds her, soaking in a moment that isn’t borrowed, yet is still so far from what he wants. 

“God,” she whispers, finally breaking their lengthy silence. He pulls back to look at her, following her line of sight to the sunset blazing across the sky. “I wish you could see this.”

He can’t tell if she means that she wishes he could see colors in general, or if she means that she wishes he was seeing colors with her— _for_ her. 

He knows what he _thinks_ she means, but hope is flaring within him without his permission, despite the logical part of his brain. He’s hoped for a lot of things the past few months, but perhaps none as much as he hopes that she means exactly what he thinks she doesn’t. Again, his mind is racing. He should tell her— _he should tell her._

But then…

She _just_ broke up with her longtime boyfriend, soulmate, almost fiancée. So of all the times that he could confess his love—not love—maybe love?—probably now isn’t the greatest choice. 

But it would be so easy. _God, I wish you could see this._ All he has to do is say _I can._

That’s all he has to say. 

And yet, the words that leave his mouth are so vastly different from what he wants to say. 

“Me too.” He whispers it, like it’s a secret. Like speaking at a normal decibel would throw a wrench into the comfortable embrace he still found himself in. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, there’s another color weaving intricately through the sunset. It’s soft, and pretty, and it makes the entire scene that much more breathtaking. He’s in so deep. He closes his eyes again, just breathes her in. 

“Jake?” 

It turns out that speaking too loud isn’t the only threat to their hug, because then she’s pulling out of his arms and looking up at him. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you think you have a soulmate?” 

A little breathless laugh escapes his lips, his voice still barely audible. “Yeah.” He wants to look away from her, but he resists. Her eye contact is intense, unwavering. He blinks slowly, his eyes flickering between her own. The tension between them is tangible, and he’s missing the feeling of her hands wrapping around the edge of his hoodie. He wants to close the distance between them, to at least pull her back against him again, but he doesn’t move. He has to dedicate a bit of effort to swallowing. 

She stares at him for a moment, like she’s calculating. “What do you think they’re like?”

He smiles sadly. His eyes flicker down to his lap. He shakes his head, then allows another melancholy, hopeless laugh to slip out of him. “I don’t know, Ames.” 

“Well, what do you want her to be like?” She presses. 

There it is again—that hope. That stupid, naive hope creeping up his spine, clinging to his brain stem, winding through his thoughts. She said _her_. He’s imagining that he can hear the same hope in her voice. That’s all it is. Imagination. He glances over at the water, his eyes tracing over the new, light color splashes blending into the vibrant pinks and oranges on the horizon. Finally, he looks back at her, a soft smile on his face. “Things don’t usually go the way I want them to.” 

Her eyes are mesmerizing. He still can’t see whatever color they are, but the dark black-gray is enough to capture all of his attention. His eyes stray from hers when he sees movement—her bottom lip tugging between her teeth. He glances back up at her eyes, and her eyes shoot down to his lips. 

He’s imagining things— _he’s imagining things._ He needs to pull it together, because there’s no way that Amy’s looking at his lips. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, his fingertips fidgeting in his lap as he tries not to move, not to breathe. 

“What about you?” His voice is still low, barely there. Her eyes are back on his, and he’s both grateful and disappointed all at once. “You broke up with your soulmate… What comes next?” 

Her eyebrows draw together for a second. She blinks slowly, and then her eyes drop right back to his lips. 

Time may have stopped all around him, he’s not sure—but she’s moving. And he isn’t imagining it. She leans in closer, her eyes flickering back to his. His lips part slightly in surprise—he had no idea where this was going, but he definitely didn’t think it was going _here_ —but then her eyes are slipping shut and her lips are brushing against his, and he’s humming quietly against her lips—surprise and satisfaction and appreciation and _yes_. He’s not sure how it happened, but _yes_. 

She pulls back to lean her forehead against his. He can feel her breath tickling against his lips, her eyelashes fluttering against his, but he doesn’t open his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“Ames,” he whispers, the name carrying so much emotion, conviction, need. Her words halt immediately, her breath catching. Then his hands are in her hair, and his lips are on hers, and it’s worth every shade of blue he’s ever had to withstand.

Her lips are just as soft as he always thought they would be, and her hands are skimming up his chest, finding purchase in the hair at the nape of his neck, her fingers gentle against his cheek, and it’s everything he wanted, everything he wants, everything he will ever want. 

A few minutes later, their foreheads are pressed together, both of them tangled together as they’re trying to catch their breath. They slowly disentangle—Jake’s fingers from her hair and Amy’s hands from the back of his neck—their wide eyes aimed at one another. 

“I’m…” Amy reaches up and touches her lips, her eyes flickering across Jake’s face like she isn’t sure what to do. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Ames.”

“I’m an idiot, I—”

“Amy—”

“No, don’t tell me I’m not an idiot. I just—I messed everything up. And I—you’re going to see colors for someone one day, and I just _kissed you.”_ She’s running her fingers through her hair on both sides, pulling it away from her face. She looks absolutely horrified. “I just dragged you into this, and you were just being a good—”

“I thought it was Teddy,” Jake interrupts. 

Amy blinks slowly, her hands coming back down to her lap. She isn’t following at all. “What?” 

“I thought it was Teddy,” he repeats softly, holding her eye contact. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I thought you had a soulmate, and I thought you were happy, and I didn’t want to mess things up for you.” 

She shakes her head slightly. “Jake?” 

“I thought it was Teddy. And I’ve been trying to figure out what to do ever since I walked into the precinct that day and saw your red lipstick.” 

“Saw my…” She blinks again, a little crease forming between her eyebrows as they scrunch up. “Lip…” She gasps softly as things finally click into place. “The coffee. But that was—”

“The day after you started seeing colors,” he whispers. 

“Almost eight months ago.” He hums quietly. “You’re…” She shakes her head. “You’re seeing colors?” 

He nods without missing a beat. “I am.” 

“For…?” 

“You.” 

He expects a lot more questioning. He expects some frustration, or more confusion, or more conversation. What he doesn’t expect is for Amy to shake her head at him, then lean right back into his arms, her arms winding around his neck as she kisses him. He’s pleasantly surprised, and he’s welcoming her to him with everything he has. 

She’s laughing against his lips a moment later, and he couldn’t chase the smile away from his lips if he tried. 

“I _knew it,”_ she whispers. 

“You did _not,”_ he shoots back. 

“I-spy?” 

“Okay, that wasn’t my best moment, but for the most part, I was good at keeping my secret! I thought about applying to teach an acting course at NYU, since I’ve become such a great—”

She shuts him up with another kiss. He melts into her, his hand traveling up her lower back and pulling her closer. She could interrupt everything he says for the rest of his life like that and he wouldn’t care in the slightest. 

By the time they separate for air again, Amy’s half way in his lap. 

“We should—”

“Kiss more,” he finishes for her, dazed and breathless. “Totally.” 

She laughs softly, pressing another slow kiss to his lips. “I was gonna say get out of here.” 

“Oh.” He’s pretty sure he visibly wilts at the suggestion. “Cool, cool, cool, yeah—home, of course. Smort.” 

She shakes her head at him, her fingers gently carding through his hair. “I never said anything about home.” 

There’s a certain level of mischief in her eyes that has him grinning right along with her, the dazed look from her kisses not quite abandoning his eyes. “What’d you have in mind?”

She stands up, offering him her hand to pull him up with her. “C’mon. We have a lot to talk about.”

And normally, Jake Peralta would run at the thought of a woman tugging him to an unknown destination to _talk_. 

Instead, he goes right along with her with the dumbest smile he’s ever worn tacked onto his face. 

She turns around as they’re approaching the boardwalk to give him one more kiss—like she can’t resist a few minutes without kissing him. He feels the same way about her. 

As he closes his eyes and follows her lead, he’s met with the most interesting feeling. Seeing colors has been a rollercoaster for Jake—most of which hasn’t been super pleasant for him. 

But kissing Amy is like seeing every color all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> purple - hope


	9. brown (just tell me everything)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the author changes the rating to explicit. 
> 
> and in which jake finally confesses everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everybody who commented about my lil predicament with this chapter! it's been through a series of rewrites over the past almost two months, and this is where we landed. also it IS smutty, though it's been toned down some, so that's worth something maybe?
> 
> also just a heads up, the next (final) chapter is planned to be more of a short epilogue than a full length chapter. always subject to change, but that's the plan!!

Nothing, he’s sure, is better than kissing Amy Santiago. 

He knows it when her lips brush against his on that blanket in the sand, he knows it when she pulls him into another kiss the second the elevator doors close, and he knows it as he distracts her from fumbling with the key card for the door. 

They’re at a hotel. Amy booked a room there this morning. She booked a room there when she was planning on spending a day away from everyone, and then she kissed him, and now he’s stepping into said room with her fingers weaving into his hair, the still-sandy blanket abandoned on the floor. 

He can’t understand how any of this could possibly be real—but he bumped into the wall on purpose on the way up here and he _definitely_ isn’t dreaming. 

She crowds him against the wall, her fingernails gently scratching down the back of his neck. He sighs against her lips, his own hands pressing up the middle of her back as he pulls her closer. One of her hands leaves his hair, brushes against his stomach on its ascent up his chest. Her fingers creep underneath the tie he’s still wearing, and he practically shivers under her touch. 

He guides her backwards, pressing her against the opposite wall in the entryway. His hands find her waist, gently exploring the curves that his eyes have traced over more times than he would ever admit to. Her arms wind around his neck, and he laughs softly, his nose brushing against hers as he nudges her face. His hands dip underneath the back of her shirt—and he knows they should take things slow, but his fingers are drawn to her skin like little metal shavings to a magnet. The way she shifts toward his touch does little in the way of helping him control himself. 

“Ames,” he whispers. Her fingers brush against his jaw, and _god_ , he’s trying to tug himself away from her. He’s trying to suggest that they go get something to eat, or that they go for a walk, or that they go somewhere public—anywhere that can keep him in check, because each second proves that he isn’t going to be able to keep it together if left to his own devices. He wants her to know that this isn’t about sex for him. He doesn’t want—

Okay, he _absolutely_ wants sex. Even with things being as mild as they currently are, it’s overwhelmingly obvious that he wants sex. The attraction he feels toward her has been building for months, building in a way that was getting hard to deny even before they’d kissed, and all the pining and tension between them, the anticipation for this… He _wants_ sex—but that’s the thing he wants _least_ from her. 

And he wants to tell her that. He wants to tell her anything. _Everything._ He wants her to know. He wants to be absolutely sure that she knows.

But then those fingers on his jaw are tipping his face to meet hers, and her lips are soft, but demanding on his, and he’s humming delightedly into the kiss, which only spurs her on further. Somewhere between his thoughts and his actions, things are getting lost in translation. His fingers twist around the thin fabric of her shirt, tug until it slips out from where it was tucked into the front of her jeans. The movement tugs her hips forward, and he’s certain that the soft sigh that falls against his lips is the best sound he’s ever heard. 

Her lips don’t leave his even when her fingers creep up to thread his tie out of its place, quickly discarding it on the floor. As soon as the tie is gone, she starts working his first button out of its place. Jake _We Should Slow Down_ Peralta follows suit, quickly working through three of her buttons before they have to break apart for air. 

He leans his forehead against hers, a soft laugh interrupting the irregular breaths he’s sharing with her. She’s smiling against his lips, and the back of his knuckles brush against her cheekbone as he nuzzles closer to her. 

“We should probably—” He abruptly cuts off as his eyes flutter open. His final word is breathless, barely audible. “…talk.” 

When he falters, Amy’s eyes flicker open, too. She gasps softly, her eyes wide on his. 

Her big, dark eyes. Little golden flecks break up the warm color that he’s never seen before, but that he never wants to look away from. 

He _has_ to look away. Because Amy’s eyes are a new color, but so is her hair. So is her skin. All of her _—all of her—_ is a new color. 

They’re both frozen, their soft, shaky breaths the only sound cutting into the silence of the room. When he started kissing her, she was all shades of gray—the same color as every person he’s ever seen throughout his entire life, the same color he’s seen her in since he met her. Now she’s all color—the first person, the _only person_ he’s ever seen in color. 

The most beautiful person he had ever seen when she was monochromatic is now a canvas of new, colorful details for him to memorize. He’s overwhelmed, his eyes flickering across her, trying to take it all in. The deep darkness of her hair falls against the warmth of her skin, but his eyes are drawn to the bright reddish-pink of her lips, his kisses coloring them a shade no lipstick could ever match. 

Her fingers card through his hair, her eyes following the movement, and as she brushes the curls away from his forehead, she brushes away any tiny, insignificant doubt he had in his mind. 

They’re soulmates. 

Truly, definitely, undeniably. 

Amy Santiago is his soulmate, and if the soft, breathless laughter escaping her lips as her eyes chase across every inch of his face is any evidence, he’s her soulmate, too. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. “We should.” 

But then her fingers are sliding back through his hair, and she’s pulling him closer, and all he can do is hum into her kiss helplessly. She works on displacing a few more buttons while his fingers tangle through her waves. When his fingers pull back out of her hair, he feels her shirt slip off of her shoulder, and he’s pulling back to look at her again before he can even think to stop himself. 

Her shirt is about halfway unbuttoned, slipping down one arm, her collar sitting high on her collarbone where it’s been shifted on the other side. Her bra is peeking out, and the black lace would have caught his attention even if she _wasn’t_ dripping in warm tones, but the black is so striking against her skin that he can’t help but to stare for a moment. 

She breathes a soft laugh, and her teeth are so white against her lips, and there’s a soft pink blooming across her cheeks and down her neck, and _—god, her neck._

He raises his eyebrows at her, his lips hesitating, searching for words, but he comes up short. He shakes his head, then leans back in, his lips trailing along her jaw. Her giggle shifts into more of a hum as she tilts her head to give him more space, which he gratefully takes advantage of. He can’t help himself, his fingers steadily working at her last few buttons, sliding underneath her shirt, palms sliding up her back, relishing in the feeling of her warm skin as his hands skim over her ribs. 

He pulls back enough to look at her again, his lips settling on her shoulder a quick moment later. He forges a path up across her collarbone, feels the vibration of her hum as he kisses up the column of her throat. When he moves back underneath her jaw, he pauses to nibble at a spot she seemed particularly responsive to, his efforts interrupted by a grin when her fingers weave into his hair again. 

“Fuck,” she whimpers, and Amy almost never swears, and he’s savoring every second of this. He’s seen so many shades of Amy Santiago, and yet he’s never seen her unravelled like this. _He’s_ doing this to her, _he’s_ getting her all worked up like this, and all the logic in his brain is lost with his shirt as she guides it off of his shoulders. Goosebumps prickle along her path across his skin, and she soothes them away with eager fingers. 

He wants _more._ He wants more, and Amy is all too ready to give him what he wants. 

She tugs on his hair, and he pulls back obediently, but before he can look up at her face, he catches sight of her neck again. His thumb gently swipes across the little red mark he’d nipped into her skin. He hasn’t even gotten used to seeing her all in color yet, and his fingers are brushing across colors that _he_ put on her. 

She slides his undershirt up, and he helps her to pull it over his head. As soon as his shirt is discarded, he’s diving back in. Things are a little more heated this time—all in the name of experimentation. What happens when he sucks on that spot by her collarbone? What about when he presses his teeth against that place? When he nibbles at her neck, her collarbone, her earlobe? God, how can he get her to make that sound again? 

He’s obsessed with chasing each new inch of color, his fingers hesitating over each new reddish spot, each freckle and scar that he notices on her skin. He’s gratified by every soft color change that each kiss, nip, and bite paints onto her skin, his own little colorful signature temporarily engraved on her body. He doesn’t even realize that he’s getting carried away until Amy’s soft, satisfied sounds turn a little more frustrated, and then her hands are pushing him away, and he’s looking up at her, dazed and turned on, but a little panicked. 

But then the hands pushing him away get a little more decisive, and she’s guiding him back against the opposite wall again. He sighs when her lips find their way onto his neck, her fingers on one hand scratching through the hair at the nape of his neck, the other gently digging into the flesh of his hip. 

Amy seems equally interested in her ability to inspire new colors on his skin. She sucks on that spot on his neck that makes him whimper, and then, for good measure, she sinks her teeth in, too. He groans, then sucks in a sharp breath, his hands pulling her closer. She pulls back to look at him, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. 

She stares at him for a moment, her eyes intense on his. She’s studying him, and he knows he should probably feel self conscious under such serious eye contact, but he doesn’t. His hands remain on her hips as he watches her eyes flicker across him. She gently takes hold of his face, her lips tugging into a smile, which he matches without hesitation. Her thumb rubs across his cheekbone, then slides down to trace across a freckle on his face. Her smile stretches wider as she traces his cupid’s bow with the tip of her finger, then follows the curve of his lips, down to the little dimple in his chin. 

Jake mirrors her, his fingers tracing across her features, eyes flickering across every little shadow, every tiny detail on her face. The new colors enhance the beauty he’s seen in her every day since he’s met her. He’s still smiling when he pulls her into what he’s certain is the softest kiss he’s ever been a part of. 

She takes things up a notch, demanding more of him, which he’s more than happy to give her. She winds her arms around his neck as she takes a step backwards, so he stumbles back with her, laughing against her lips at their clumsy trek. One of her hands slides down his chest as she turns them, then she’s pushing him backwards. He falls on the bed, looking up at her with dazed, lustful eyes. He reaches for her hips, but before he can pull her closer, she’s climbing onto his lap. 

That little voice that had been so adamant about slowing things down is completely silent now. 

His fingers are traversing her skin, and he’s humming against her lips, and when she experimentally shifts her hips against his, he pulls her closer by the arm wrapped around her waist. She lets out a shaky breath, her eyes on his as she repeats the motion. He squeezes his eyes shut, whining quietly at the friction between them. She props her elbow up on his shoulder, her fingers carding through his hair as she kisses him again. 

His hands slip down her back, following her curves until his fingers are teasing the edge of her shorts on the back of her thighs. He’s helping her to move against him, their kiss getting interrupted by soft, pleading sounds. 

Jake’s normally plagued with a short attention span, his thoughts constantly propelled toward _what happens next_ , but right now, all he can focus on is her. Her lips on his, and her body on his, and her tongue on his, and he’s so caught up in everything he’s feeling that he doesn’t even notice when her fingers stray from his hair and down to the button on his jeans. 

He gasps at the sudden change in pressure. He’s no longer straining against his zipper, and Amy’s fingers are cautiously brushing against the soft fabric underneath the denim _just enough_ to drive him absolutely insane, and he should be _thinking._ He should be thinking about how this isn’t how this day was supposed to go, and this isn’t how he ever pictured things would go with her _(if_ things ever happened with her), and they should slow _down._

But he isn’t thinking. He’s reaching up, his face buried in her chest, lips mouthing over the thin, black fabric that’s so frustratingly in his way. His fingers scale her back, searching in vain for a clasp on the back of her bra. She shrugs away from him enough that she can cross her arms in front of her, grasping the sides of her bra and tugging it over her head in one quick motion. 

He’s taken aback for a moment. His fingers hesitate on her ribs as he looks at her, his thumbs slowly sliding up, brushing against the underside of her breasts. 

“You’re so…” He trails off, exhaling softly as he tries to find the right words. “God, Ames…”

She kisses him again, and it’s soft, and it’s slow, and it’s _perfect._ He’s breathing her in, and his hands are exploring her skin, and he’s just so lost in her. Her fingers slide against his chest, and he knows that she can feel his heart thumping against her fingertips. Hell, she’d probably be able to _hear it_ if it weren’t for the soft, breathy noises they keep dragging out of each other. 

She tips her head back when he begins to trail kisses down her neck again, her breath hitching as his lips inch closer to where his thumbs are already rubbing at sensitive skin. Her fingers tug back through his hair again when his tongue flicks across her nipple. His free arm wraps back around her waist, helping her to grind down on him. Amy’s soft little sounds are falling from her lips more frequently than before, and he’s so absorbed in everything he’s feeling that he doesn’t anticipate it at all when her hand slips back between their bodies. 

Her hand dips back into his jeans, and he whimpers at the contact. She grasps him, and his boxers are still separating them, but she’s _touching him._ His mouth slows against her skin, the pattern his tongue was tracing faltering. His efforts are interrupted by his shaky, shallow breaths. 

Her free hand makes its way to his jaw, gently tipping his face up toward her. She leans her forehead against his, her lips brushing against his as she slowly explores him. She’s learning him, he knows. She’s making mental notes of every desperate little sound, each broken breath she drags out of him, exactly what she did to earn each reaction. For a moment, he’s frozen. She’s touching him, and he’s trying to breathe through it, his fingers digging into her hips. 

She hums, and that’s when he realizes that he isn’t really touching her at all. His eyes snap open and she’s watching him with this satisfied little grin. His hands find their way to her button, and he tugs her closer as he unbuttons it. 

He holds her eye contact as he slides his hand into the front of her shorts, his eyes flickering shut as he admires the way her breath hitches paired with the way she’s still slowly working him. He doesn’t have peak mobility with his hand awkwardly shoved into her shorts at this angle, and Amy seems to take note of that immediately. 

Just as quickly as his hand made it into her shorts, it’s sliding back out. He barely manages to contain his whine at the loss when her hands slip away from him. He hasn’t quite caught up with what she’s doing when she slides off of his lap and leans back next to him, but then he’s watching her shorts fall to the floor completely. 

Her fingers hesitate at her waist. All she has on is the black underwear hugging her hips, and he’s watching as her fingers dip underneath the hem, hesitantly tugging them down just a bit. 

“If I leave them on, I’m just going to have to get off of you again,” she explains softly. He’s hit with a rush of desire for her. Surely he’s never found Amy’s knack for planning ahead quite this attractive. “Maybe you should take yours off, too.” 

He’s certain that he’s never been so quick to follow directions in his life. His jeans hit the floor before she even lifts her hips to tug her underwear off. 

His boxers are still on when she does strip off her final piece of clothing, and he knows he should follow suit, but _Amy Santiago,_ the woman he’s been falling harder and harder for for months, is completely naked next to him. She’s completely naked, and he isn’t touching her, and that’s a situation that needs to be resolved immediately. 

Her plan was to climb back onto his lap again when they were both naked, but she doesn’t seem to mind him switching things up at all. One of her hands weaves into his hair as he kisses her, her other hand slipping down to grip onto the boxers he’d left neglected on his hips. She doesn’t tug them off yet, but she does pull at the waistband, squeeze his hip urgently, dip her fingers underneath the fabric to drag her nails against his skin gently. 

Jake’s hands have their own plan. They stray from where they’re holding her face, taking the time to explore her on their trek downward. She hums as he slowly makes his way across her body, admiring every inch of smooth skin underneath his fingers. When he reaches her hips, one hand hesitates there, his thumb rubbing gently at that spot he’d wondered about months ago. His other hand slips down, chasing skin until he’s rubbing at the soft flesh at the inside of her thigh, and she’s humming with anticipation, and he doesn’t have a single thought in his head that isn’t _Amy_. 

He squeezes gently as he grips her thigh, hitching her legs further apart to give himself a little more room. Then the hand that was still at her hip creeps down. He lets out a low whine as he finally touches her, finding her wet and wanting. Her hips arch closer to him at the soft touch, a gentle sound escaping her lips. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers softly as he breaks their kiss. “Ames, fuck.”

She hums, her eyes squeezed shut, but her lips slipping apart in bliss. She’s completely still for a moment, but then her fingers tighten on his boxers, and in no time, she’s tugging off his final piece of clothing. 

Her fingers brush against his skin, slowly making their way closer to where he’s so obviously craving her touch. His fingers trace soft, little circles against her clit. She arches closer, whimpering at his touch. 

Before he can feel too satisfied, her fingers are wrapping around him. The feeling of her skin on his, completely unobstructed… His lips falter on her chest as he groans quietly, but his fingers don’t lose their focus at all. 

He came into this hotel room with the intention of telling Amy everything. Instead, he’s gently working a finger into her, trying not to absolutely _lose it_ when she moans his name. His lips detach from her skin long enough to look at her—he can’t stop _looking at her,_ all in color, breathtaking beyond belief even before she was pulling each shaky breath out of him with decisive hands. She’s beautiful, and he’s mesmerized by the way her dark lashes flutter as her eyes slips shut, by the way her lips part as he adds a second finger to the first, at the tension between her eyebrows as she tries to keep her focus on touching him. 

He never thought he’d make it this far. He never thought _at all._ He definitely wasn’t thinking—or expecting—that they’d do more than this. So when she shifts underneath him, when she adjusts her legs to make more space for him between them, when she guides him closer, there’s no part of him that’s anticipating it. Even when that’s clearly where things were going, Jake didn’t think for a second that it was a real possibility. 

He lets out a sharp breath at the contact, his lips slipping away from hers. 

“Please,” she whimpers softly. The fingers curving around her hip grip tighter. “Jake, please.” 

_“Fuck.”_

He sighs, and god, he _wants her._ He wants her so bad, but he finds himself carefully pulling his fingers away from her. His hand hesitates there, and she’s quick to redirect it, to help him wrap his fingers around himself. She guides his hand slowly, and he practically growls at the sensation of the slick motions that she’s guiding him through. She guides him closer to her once again, but for the first time, his thoughts are catching up with his actions.

“Wait—Ame _—Ames.”_

Amy lets go of him completely, her eyes quick to focus on his. All of the lust he’d seen there previously is gone, replaced by a familiar concern. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I—” He trails off, shaking his head, his forehead dropping against her shoulder as he works on steadying his breath. “Nothing,” he finishes more softly. 

“Hey, Jake.” She murmurs. He peeks up at her, a whole mess of emotions settling over him, something other than desire making his stomach twist in knots. Her fingers brush against his jaw. “What’s going on?” 

He shakes his head again. “Nothing is…” He swallows. “Nothing’s, uh, wrong. I… I just—I don’t know.” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” There’s a pause that feels a little too long to be comfortable considering their current state, and he’s having trouble looking up at her. Her thumb rubs over his jaw again, and he glances up at her. 

“It’s okay, Jake. If you don’t want to, we don’t have to—”

“It’s not that.” He reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, his fingers hesitating there for a moment. “It’s not that, Amy. I—of course I want to. It’s not that. I just…” He takes a deep, slow breath. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure about you,” she responds immediately. 

“But…” He shakes his head. “Are you _really_ sure? Because I…” He’s struggling to find exactly the right words, and she seems to see his frustration. Her fingers brush against his face again. “I can’t—” He stops short, searching for words. “And then…” Another shaky breath forces its way out of him. 

“Jake…” She begins slowly. “I see you.” Her eyes flicker between his, and he feels this weird warmth all over at her simple words. “I see you _in color.”_ She holds his eye contact, and in all of the years he’s known her—for all of the serious looks she’s given him—he doesn’t think she’s ever looked at him quite this seriously. “You’re my soulmate, Jake.” Her fingers ruffle through his hair, and her lips tug into a smile that he’s still too taken aback to match. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m sure about you either way.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but his lips are finally tugging upward. He never thought he would hear Amy saying those words about him. 

“I’m your soulmate,” he repeats her words slowly. 

“You’re my soulmate.” 

“And you’re sure?” 

He leans his forehead against hers, and her laughter touches her words as she replies. “I’m sure, Jake.” 

“We’re soulmates,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “We are.” 

He looks into her eyes for a moment, and everything just feels _right._ Just like that, he’s kissing her again. All the panic that had abruptly washed over him, as quickly as it had appeared, she’d pushed it all away. 

His fingers slowly make their way back down, nursing her desire and admiring the hums that fall against his lips. Her fingers dig into his shoulder blade. One of her hands strays down to his chest, but it doesn’t linger any lower, he notices. She’s making sure he has control of the situation. 

She wants him to be comfortable. 

It’s strange, he thinks. 

All this time, he’d almost been thinking of Amy as two separate people. There was Amy, his soulmate, and Amy, his friend. 

Now his friend Amy is gasping against his lips as he positions himself. Her eyes are flickering open to look at his, reflecting all the emotion and sincerity he feels for her back at him. She’s brushing her fingertips against his cheek and pulling him into a kiss that’s equal parts soft and demanding, and she’s arching her hips closer to him encouragingly. 

There were never two separate Amys. 

Amy Santiago is his best friend, and his best friend is his soulmate. 

Being with her like this is an entirely new experience. He can think of a million reasons why sex with Amy is so different than anyone else he’s ever been with. There’s a layer of intimacy he’s never experienced—these years of friendship between them, of learning each other and how to get under one another’s skin, this all-encompassing understanding and care they have for each other. Everything with her is intensified, each touch electrified by the excitement of knowing _this is it_. 

For months, he was certain that his future would be empty. 

Now his future is her. 

His future is kisses that are somehow soft and desperate all at once, soft commands like _relax, Jake_ that simultaneously make his heart flutter and his skin tingle as she takes the lead, sex so good that he’s questioning how they were ever able to be around each other normally when they were capable of _this_ the entire time. His future is gentle hands holding him close as they work to slow their breathing, lips chasing skin even as their soft laughter breezes against damp skin. 

He thought that perhaps it might be awkward, if this happened. He thought they’d have trouble transitioning into being close in this way. They still might have trouble, he knows. He’s sure that a years-long friendship doesn’t shift into a relationship with automatic ease, but this? 

This feels right. 

Nothing about lying in bed with Amy against his chest feels awkward. There aren’t nervous thoughts racing through his head, wondering if they’d made a mistake. He feels relaxed, and he feels satisfied, and he feels _happy._

Really, truly happy. Happy without storm clouds looming just outside his peripheral vision. 

He runs his fingers through her hair, and he presses his lips to her forehead, and she lets out a soft, contented hum. 

“You know, uh…” Jake trails off, his fingers tracing between her shoulder blades. “I actually wanted to talk to you.” He pauses for a moment, grinning when she looks up at him with a puzzled expression. “When we got to the room, I mean.” 

“Oh.” She nods, shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, I could tell by the way you were kissing me before we even got into the room.” 

He scoffs, but his smile stays put. “Right, because you were doing so much better. I always thought you were the responsible one between us, but I was the only one who even _tried_ to slow things down.”

“You didn’t try very hard.” 

He laughs incredulously. “I mean, you didn’t make it very easy. And then—with the new color…” He trails off, his fingertips tracing against her skin, admiring the new color that he’d barely gotten used to, yet that seems so right, like he’d seen her this way all along. “It was a lot all at once.” 

“Yeah,” she whispers, her eyes aimed down at his chest as she thinks back on the moment. Her eyes flick back up to his. “I’m glad, though. Being with you was—”

“Amazing?” 

She laughs. “No—”

“Incredible?” 

“No—”

“Okay, hurtful—”

“Shut up,” she laughs softly, stretching up to kiss him. She shakes her head. “Being with you was different. In a good way.” 

He hums quietly, pressing his lips back to hers. “For me, too.” 

They’re both smiling, Jake nuzzling his face closer to hers, his hands constantly brushing against her bare skin. 

“I do want to talk, though.” She looks up at him, her eyes timid, but hopeful. “About everything.” 

“Yeah, me too,” he quickly agrees. 

There’s a lengthy silence. He wouldn’t characterize it as _uncomfortable,_ but he also couldn’t come up with anything to fill the silence, which is uncomfortable in its own right. 

“I guess I just don’t know where to even start.” 

She smoothes her hand against his chest, then rests her head against his shoulder. “The beginning, I guess. The first color you saw.”

“Gray.” He can’t resist the urge to joke. Talking about his feelings has never been super easy for him, and while he does want to talk about all of this, old habits die hard. “Or black, maybe. It’s hard to say which was first, I guess.” 

“Jake.” She shakes her head at him, and then she’s adjusting to move closer, her lips pressing to his again. Her soft fingers brush against his cheek, and he can’t help but smile. His eyes remain closed for a moment after her lips leave his. “It’s okay.” 

He nods, his forehead still touching hers, then presses one more quick peck to her lips before she settles back against his chest. He takes a deep breath. “Red. It was—” He shakes his head, doing his best to shrug away the discomfort at being so vulnerable with her. His entire naked body is pressed to hers, he should be able to _talk to her._ “You saw red with Teddy. And I saw red the next morning. Because of—”

“Jealousy,” she interrupts.

He nods his head a fraction, shifting slightly and looking up toward the ceiling. He’s had days much worse than that one, but thinking about that first day—the first color, the first few weeks where he learned what this all meant… His world was becoming more colorful, yet those were some of his darkest days. He’s tearing open wounds he’d only barely bandaged up in front of the only person he swore could never know about any of this. His fingers nervously drum against her shoulder, and he’s trying to will them to stop, but he just can’t. 

He looks back down at her when she shifts onto her side, her hand sliding up to cover his. She’s looking at their hands. She’s comforting him without scrutinizing. He shifts his hand so he can tangle their fingers together, his eyes watching his thumb trace along her knuckles. 

“It was you,” he practically whispers. “I knew it from that day. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t, because if it was….” He trails off, his jaw clenching at the memory. “I couldn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to mess up your life. Ya’know, I was always messing things up for you already. You had Teddy. I didn’t want to get in the way.” 

“Dawson case,” she murmurs. 

He looks down at her. “What?” 

Her eyes flicker up to his. “The day before I saw red, you lost the witness statement paperwork for the Dawson case. I had to track down all of the witnesses and meet them in different locations by myself because you got stuck with Charles on that petty theft case, _and_ I had to listen to all of the statements again, including the—”

“Jelly donut guy.” Jake frowns, his eyes meeting hers apologetically. “You were pissed.”

“Livid,” she corrects. “After work, Teddy and I got in a big fight about—” She pauses abruptly, her eyebrows pulling together like she isn’t sure she should keep talking. He squeezes her hand, his lips tugging up at the weak smile she offers him. “You. About—you know, we were all going to Shaw’s to celebrate your solve on the Everson murder, and Teddy didn’t want me to go. He said we didn’t act like we were just friends and if I didn’t have feelings for you, I wouldn’t have been so upset when he asked me not to be your friend.” 

“He asked you to stop being friends with me?” 

“Demanded, actually.” Amy shrugs. “So we got in a huge fight. He said if I was going, he was coming, too. I told him I couldn’t stop him from showing up, but he wouldn’t be going with _me_ , he’d be there alone.” Another shrug. “And I left his apartment. When I got home from work the next day to change before heading to Shaw’s, Teddy was there waiting for me. He’d gotten me a little strawberry cupcake to apologize, and the strawberry on top was red.” 

He watches as she hesitates. She shakes her head, her eyebrows scrunching together as she reflects back on the memory. Jake’s thumb continues its little comforting path on her fingers. 

“I thought it was you.” 

Jake’s fingers stop moving altogether. “You thought it was…?” 

“Or, I don’t know, I thought it _could_ be you.” She pulls her hand out of his, gesturing noncommittally. “I thought, or, I guess I _knew_... it was either you or Teddy. And then, ya’know, I was so excited when I saw red that I just blurted out that I saw it. And a little while later, Teddy was seeing it, too.” 

“So it was him.” 

“So I thought it was him.” 

“But you thought it could’ve been me?” Despite being in bed with her, Jake’s dumbfounded.

“Feelings aside, it logically had to be either you or Teddy. It made sense for it to be Teddy.” 

“It didn’t make sense for it to be me.” 

“Not at the time. But…” She shrugs. “Even though it didn’t make sense… You’re my best friend, and, ya’know, that possibility was scary… But I also wasn’t _surprised_ , ya’know?” 

“You weren’t?”

“It didn’t make sense, but… it also kind of did. And when I thought it could be you, it occurred to me that maybe Teddy wasn’t wrong. Maybe we _don’t_ act like we’re just friends.” She looks up at him again. “But I wasn’t going to cut you out of my life because Teddy said so. If it came down to you or him, I was going to choose you.” 

Jake’s trying to untangle the thoughts that are speeding through his mind enough to form a coherent response. Sure, from his current vantage point, that sort of makes sense, but from where he stood eight months ago? “You… Me?” 

Amy laughs, her focus drawn to her thumbnail. “I mean, it didn’t help that Teddy was basically trying to give me an ultimatum and manipulate me into doing what he wanted. That didn’t make me want to choose him, I guess.” 

“But then he started seeing colors,” Jake continues for her, connecting all the dots himself. 

She nods. “He started seeing colors, and as far as I knew, you didn’t. He backed off of my friendship with you once he knew we were soulmates, and I wasn’t going to ruin my friendship with you by awkwardly asking if you were seeing colors for me just because I thought _maybe_... So it just made sense for it to be Teddy. And yeah, we were having some problems, but we were dating and things weren’t _bad.”_ She sighs. “I mean, they definitely could have been better.” 

“So if I would have told you…” 

Amy shrugs. “I don’t know. But I think things might have gone a lot differently.” There’s a moment of silence, Jake shaking his head. “So what did you do?” 

A forced laugh escapes him. “Uh, I read a lot. About soulmates, and what it meant if Teddy was your soulmate and I was, too.” 

She’d normally tease him about the reading thing, but the look on his face keeps her quiet. “What’d you find?” 

He hesitates. “It’s never happened before. I was the first person for it to happen to, so there weren’t any real answers.” He trails off, looking up at the ceiling again. “But, uh… essentially, I was gonna be alone. You don’t get a second soulmate, and the more I tried to pretend it wasn’t you, the more obvious it became that it _had to be._ And then, ya’know, I was falling—” He abruptly cuts off, his voice lowering, then tapering off into a sort of confused statement as he finishes. “I was falling for you?” 

He’s past the point where that should be difficult for him to admit. He’s in bed with her, no less than ten minutes ago he was _inside of her_ —he should be able to say that he was interested in her. Regardless, the statement struggles to leave his tongue. He takes a deep breath and looks over at her, serious as he tries again. 

“I had feelings for you. Have—I have them, in case that hadn’t been clear. And every time I tried to shove them down and pretend they didn’t exist, they just got more serious, or you’d do something that proved I couldn’t get over you, or I’d remember that we’re—” He cuts off again, taking a deep, shaky breath. “If you were my soulmate, I wasn’t going to be able to get over you anyway.” 

He doesn’t look back at her to gauge her reaction. He’s missing the feeling of her hand in his. For a second, it occurs to him that Teddy’s still her other soulmate. Even with everything that has happened the past few hours, there’s still so much to figure out. He’s telling her everything, completely baring himself to her, and there’s still a chance—a very small chance, he thinks—that she could end up with Teddy. The silence is suffocating him, and his fingers area already beginning to twitch again. 

But then instead of grabbing his hand, Amy snuggles further into his side. He looks down at her, but her head is lying on his chest in a way that he can’t see her face. Her arm slides back underneath the blanket and wraps around his middle. He winds an arm around her, smiling to himself as his fingers return to comfortingly tailing up her spine. 

He knows her. For months he had to think this way. He doesn’t now. 

“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that alone,” she whispers. His other hand comes up to comb his fingers through her hair. “I had no idea.” 

“I wasn’t alone.” She looks up at him, and he smiles down at her. “I still had you. Even when everything was falling apart, you were still my friend. Things were really hard, but you were always there. Even when you didn’t know it.” 

Her eyes flicker between his, and then she’s stretching closer to press their lips together. He hums into the slow, comforting kiss. It lasts a few seconds, and she presses one more to the corner of his mouth before she winds up in his arms again. 

“Okay, green. I’ll go first this time?” He’s quiet, so she continues. “Uh, the day you jumped in front of that bullet for me. We hit the ground and when I opened my eyes, everything was green. But then before I could even process that, I saw you bleeding. I thought…” She sighs. “I don’t know, I was trying to make it all make sense. Normally people see colors so much closer together than I saw red and green, which didn’t make sense. And when it happened, I told myself it was because I thought I was going to die, and then, ya’know, I’d never see Teddy again.”

Jake runs his fingers through her hair as she details the memory to him. This time when he has the urge to press a kiss to her hairline, he does it. Her fingers tighten where they’re squeezing lightly at his side.

“It occurred to me again that it could be you. But you weren’t seeing colors. I mean, I saw green before I saw you bleeding, but I thought, ya’know, I’m always scared for you, right?” She shakes her head. “When we’re in the field, I mean. You’re my partner, and you’re my friend, and I’m always aware that things could go wrong while we’re working. And when you add someone pointing a gun in our general direction…” She trails off. “But you weren’t seeing colors.”

“I saw green at the same time,” he murmurs. “It was you—the gun was pointed at you. I didn’t even think about it, I just had to…” He takes a deep, slow breath. “I was afraid _you_ were going to die. And then after—I, uh, I don’t know. Thought maybe I was gonna die? And everything was green, and it was all so overwhelming, but…” He pauses, sighing quietly. “All I could think about was you. You were okay, and you were going to be okay, and maybe I was your soulmate, but Teddy was your soulmate, too, so you wouldn’t be alone. I thought, I don’t know, that maybe that’s why we were both seeing colors for you. Like the world always knew that I wasn’t going to make it, so they gave you two soulmates to make up for losing me.” 

Amy takes a shaky breath against his chest. “Jake, that’s…” 

He tips her head up so he can look at her, his fingers gentle on her jaw. Her eyes are glistening. “It’s okay, Ames.” 

“It’s not. That’s so sad. You were alone, and you…” 

“But you wouldn’t be. And that’s what mattered.” 

“I was so scared that I was going to lose you.” She takes another shaky breath, her hand shifting up to his chest. “When your eyes closed, I thought…”

“You were the last thing I saw.” His voice is soft. “I thought I was gonna die, and you were the last thing I saw… and I was okay.” 

A single tear manages its way down her cheek. It’s warm on his thumb as he rubs it away. He brushes the back of his knuckles across her cheekbone, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s okay, Amy. I’m okay.” 

She takes another shaky breath. She nods slightly, her eyes searching his, and he’s not sure which one of them moves first, but they’re kissing again. Her fingers rub against the space below his ear, the fingers on her other hand set on carding through his hair. His hand remains on her face, gentle and steady, his other hand bringing her closer once again. 

There’s an urgency to this kiss, both of them pulling each other closer, fingers searching for something to hold onto. His fingers tangle into her hair and gently tug her to where he wants her. She responds in kind, her fingers winding into his hair and pulling lightly. She laughs at his little desperate groan, and with them already being in bed together, things are heading toward dangerous territory quickly. 

Jake is breathless when they tip their faces apart, clinging to each other as they try to regulate their breathing. He’s not sure if it’s just their new way of finding comfort with one another or if it’s just because they’re finally taking advantage of being able to kiss, but he isn’t going to let this talk get pushed to the side a second time. 

He pulls back enough to check in with her—she’s similarly breathless, but her eyes are no longer swimming with tears. Their faces are still tipped together, his lips centimeters from hers when he begins talking again. 

“Orange,” he whispers reluctantly. He wants to keep kissing her, but he’s trying to have just an ounce of self restraint. He’ll have time to kiss her after they get through all of this. “The stitches—when you were helping me get my shirt off, then pulling off that bandage…” 

“That sound you made.” Her fingers creep down to touch the place where that scar rests. He barely resists the shiver that her touch inspires. “That’s when you saw orange?” 

He shakes his head. “That was just the start. You were killing me that night, Ames. Taking off the bandage and putting it back on was enough, but then on top of that there’s the way you looked at me when you walked in on—”

“Oh my god.” She covers her face with both hands. “I’m so sorry. That’s still so embarrassing.” 

“I get it, Ames.” He grins at her, and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t blame you for staring.” His smile grows when she rolls her eyes again. 

“God—” She cuts off, covering her face again. “And then the next morning…” She groans quietly. 

He reaches around her hand to stroke his thumb across her cheek. She peeks out from underneath her hands at him, and her eyes are so big and innocent and adorable, and he just wants to kiss her face. Instead, he smirks at her. “Did something happen the following morning? I don’t recall.” 

“God, this is—” Her hands drop against his chest, but her eyes squeeze shut again. She shakes her head.

Jake shakes his head, laughing softly. His fingers trace against her neck, then he shifts to follow the same path with his lips. Amy hums, and his voice drops to a low rumble against her ear. 

“Fifteen minutes ago, you were coming for me,” he whispers. Her head tilts closer to the sound, her fingers twitching against his chest. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Amy.” 

She takes a deep breath, like his words really affected her. He presses his nose against her jaw until he can tip her head up a little, then presses his lips there again. He’s smirking to himself, but his voice is at a normal volume when he starts again. 

“So that’s when you saw orange, right?” 

She nods, her eyes slowly opening, voice weak. “In the mirror right after that. And I…” She shakes her head again. “You said you couldn’t see it, and I was just trying to make it make sense. Because how could the color be for Teddy if I was thinking about—” She pauses, her wide eyes focusing on him again, lips parted as she hesitates. 

“You were thinking about me?” 

Her hands cover her face again, her words rushed. “I _only_ woke up in bed with Teddy, so, I don’t know. I didn’t even open my eyes, I just—I wasn’t trying to, like…”

“That—none of that matters to me—although I _do_ think it’s funny that Amy _I wake up at 5am_ Santiago woke up and didn’t know where she was—”

“I—it’s not like I—I was just on autopilot. I had just woken up to you moaning—”

“In pain,” he interjects. Amy pauses, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head shamefully. Jake laughs softly. “I’m just teasing you.” 

_“Either way,”_ she continues, “why would I have woken up spooning someone and immediately thought it was you and not the person I was used to waking up with?” She shrugs. “So you moaned in my ear, and I had just had that dream and—”

Her eyes widen again, flashing to his similarly wide eyes. 

“Wait, wait, wait… You had a _dream_ about me? While you were in my bed?” 

She groans. “I didn’t say it was about you.” 

His grin widens. “But it was, right? Your sex dream about a coworker—it was about me.” She stares at him silently. “God, that’s so hot. Also—” He raises his eyebrows at her, the grin turning into more of a smirk. “—embarrassing. Tell me everything.” 

“Jake.” She raises her eyebrows back. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Definitely not the time. But I _do_ want to hear about it. Every detail.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it made more sense for that one to be you. But I asked if you could see the words and you said no.” 

“So you assumed it was because you thought I was Teddy.” 

“But I was suspicious of you. Which is why I tried to trick you when we were playing I-Spy.” 

He laughs. “You _did_ trick me. I thought I was going to have to confess everything to you in the car.” 

“I thought for sure that I had you. But then when I saw that sunflower field and you didn’t even look over at it, I knew you couldn’t see yellow—so I thought maybe you really _did_ just guess that car and get lucky.” 

She still looks embarrassed, a soft pink lingering on her cheeks, so he pulls her closer again. He rests his forehead against hers, nuzzling his nose closer, then pulls back to press a few soft kisses to her cheek. For a second, he worries that that was too much. Too soft, too sweet for a _we haven’t even finished talking about what this is_ relationship. 

The smile on her face when he pulls away chases that thought straight out of his head. 

“Are you sure you don’t wanna talk about the dream? The next color is blue, so we could probably use a pick me up, right?” 

She smiles sadly. “I’m _not_ going to share the dream right now, but I will go first again.” She takes a deep breath, then shifts back to snuggle into him. “I, uhm, left your apartment, and I was worried about you. And, ya’know, worried about our friendship, after what had happened, and… I don’t know. I think I wasn’t really ready to accept it, but part of me just wished that things were different.” 

He rubs his hand between her shoulder blades again, a consistent, slow comfort. “Different how?” 

Amy pauses for a moment, her voice soft. “Different like… I was right from the beginning. Like I saw red because of Jelly Donut Guy.” 

Jake’s voice is just as soft. “You wish Jelly Donut Guy was your soulmate?” 

He grins at her when her head snaps up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I really can’t stand you.” 

“I mean, I guess it would be cool to always have access to donuts like that.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“But I don’t know… Could you handle watching him chew with his mouth open like that every day for the _rest of your life?_ I mean, sure, Hitchcock and Scully have to have prepared you a _little—”_

His words are cut off by her lips on his. This is another soft kiss, but something about her hand on his face has him melting into her. She pulls back, her eyes still closed, thumb still rubbing against his jaw. “Shut up, Jake.” 

He smiles, humming an agreement and breaking his smile long enough for one more quick kiss. She rests her head back against his chest. 

“You’re my best friend,” she continues, “and I love spending time with you, even when you drive me crazy. And I know I can always trust you, and that you’re always there. I know you. And I guess after that day, it kind of felt like things weren’t ever going to be the same between us. And I just wished…” She sighs. His hand rests on her back, patiently waiting. “I just wished it was you.” 

There are a few moments of silence. Jake continues to come up short in regard to the right words to tell her everything he feels for her. She sighs again. “I went home, and I just felt so sad. And Teddy came over, and he could tell something was wrong. He wanted to help, but I told him I’d rather be alone. He looked so sad, and that just made me feel worse on top of everything else. I just went to bed after he left, and when I woke up, I saw the sky out my window.” 

Jake’s arms tighten around her. “If it makes you feel better, I wished it was me, too.” He laughs softly. “That’s actually not that different from what it was like for me. I was sad about us, and unsure about what the future would look like. I was thinking about how I was alone. I was always going to be alone, and I just wanted…” He shakes his head, swallowing back some emotion when her hand slides up to rest against his chest again. “You. I wanted you. And then I was also on that painkiller, so that wasn’t helping anything.” 

He laughs softly. She sits up, pulling the blanket up with her. Her eyes are somber on his. “I’m sorry, Jake.” 

He waves his hand dismissively, sitting up on her level. “Don’t be. It’s fine. I fell asleep, and I woke up to a knock on my door. My blanket was blue, and I just rolled my eyes and went to answer the door and…” He shrugs. “I saw the sky in front of Charles. He knew immediately.” 

“Charles knew?” 

Jake nods. “I told him everything. How it was definitely you, how I just kept getting deeper and deeper, how things felt like they were never going to be okay.” 

“What’d he say?” 

“That he knew it.” They both laugh. “And that I should tell you.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Would you?” 

She purses her lips, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Probably not.” 

“I really thought you were happy with him, Amy. I wasn’t going to be the reason that everything got harder for you. I just wanted you to have everything you deserve.” She looks at him for a few seconds, a crease between her eyebrows. “What?” 

She shakes her head. His eyebrows draw together, but then she’s shifting and pulling him closer with her hand on the back of his neck, and he’s humming against her lips. His hand brushes against her thigh, then doubles back in search of her soft, warm skin. His fingers splay out there, smoothing down toward her knee, inspiring little goosebumps in his path.

She pulls back and looks at him, and he thinks that she’s going to pull away. Instead, she kisses him again, shifting until she’s straddling his lap again. He hums in surprise, his hands sliding up her hips, pulling her closer with his hands pressed to the small of her back. Her fingers weave into his hair, tugging gently until he’s looking up at her, dazed and disheveled. 

“What?” He whispers again. 

She dips back down to kiss him again. His soft laughter tapers off before it really interrupts her rhythm. Her fingers slide out of his hair, slipping down and resting in that space below his ear. His hands hold her carefully in place, aware that he’s just a few small movements from losing his battle of finishing this conversation. Her arms wind around his neck to pull him closer, and that’s when his laughter finds its way back to his lips. 

It’s just a quiet laugh at first, but it’s insistent. His smile is breaking their kisses, and Amy’s trying to be more persistent than his laughter, but the laughter prevails. She pulls back, looking moderately annoyed. He chuckles quietly, trying his hardest to dispel his laughter and pressing another soft kiss to her lips, which is immediately interrupted yet again—by his laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” Her eyebrows are raised disapprovingly, which only makes him snicker more. 

“I’m sorry, I’m—no, no, wait.” He holds her in place when she tries to climb off of his lap. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” He smiles, his laughter dying on his lips as he looks up at her. “This still doesn’t feel real.” 

The soft smile that puts on her lips might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. 

“Well,” she grabs his wrists, and he reluctantly lets his hands slip off of her hips when she pulls them up and presses them against his chest. “It _is_ real, but we still have a few more colors to cover, and I’m sure you won’t be contributing to the conversation much with me sitting here.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re responsible?” He laughs when she rolls her eyes at him as she climbs off of his lap. “I wanna say you’re wrong, but you know me too well.” 

He leans against the headboard, and she flops over him haphazardly, grinning at his little _oof_ at the impact of her dropping against his chest. She stretches her legs out over his lap, settling into him when he wraps his arms around her, practically cradling her to his chest. 

“Yellow,” she declares. 

“Yellow,” he repeats. His smile might actually break his face in half, he can’t be sure. He likes her so much, and he still can’t believe that he’s here. He can’t believe everything he’s told her. There’s still so much left to tell her, and his desire to tell her everything carries him through the distraction that her lips keep providing him with. His fingers play with the blanket around her waist. 

“So you didn’t see it when we were at the sunflower field. When did you?”

“That night.” His voice is soft, reminiscent. Things weren’t going so great for him at the time, but that entire day is one that holds such a special place in his heart. “Ya’know, I actually was kind of stressed? I knew you were seeing it, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t.” He leans his head back. “I felt so happy, and I knew there was a color for it, but I just couldn’t _see it.”_

Her fingers move up to card through his hair. He smiles softly at her, one of his hands falling to her lap and squeezing gently above her knee through the blanket. “It’s one of my favorite days.” 

He grins at her. “Mine, too.” He shakes his head, looking down at his fingers, following the steady path he traces. “I mean, really, the whole day was a roller coaster for me. I was happy to be with you, and then I was having fun with you in the car, and then there was the I-Spy Debacle, and—”

She laughs, tipping her head back with the motion. It somehow makes him smile even wider. “The I-Spy Debacle? That’s so dramatic.” 

“I almost ruined months of dedication for a game, Amy.” 

“Wait—Jake Peralta ruining something for the sake of a game?” She gasps dramatically. 

He quirks his eyebrows at her, grinning as he continues. “It’s worth being dramatic over, Ames.” She shakes her head fondly at him. He wiggles his eyebrows and makes her roll her eyes before he continues again. “So I was nervous and disappointed about that. And then the song. And then, ya’know, I was confused about not seeing the color with you, and then happy when we got to the sunflower field, and then frustrated and sad when the car wouldn’t start, and then—”

“Happy,” she cuts in. “Happy when we made a new game out of it.” 

“And when you pulled out the painkillers because you knew that I’d need them. And when you pulled me closer to you in the car because you didn’t want me to be in more pain when I woke up. And when I woke up panicked in the middle of the car ride and you played with my hair until I relaxed again. And when you kidnapped me and took me to the diner, and ordered fries for me, and… I was just happy because I knew you.” He shakes his head, his eyes still aimed down at her lap. “Always happy because I know you.” 

She leans her head back against his shoulder, her smile mirroring his. “So at the end of the night, on your doorstep? Did you see yellow then?”

“No. I was in bed, still smiling like a huge idiot—”

“Kind of like you are now?” 

He laughs. “Exactly like I am now. And then you texted me the pictures from the sunflower field.” He shakes his head, smiling softly at the memory. “The flowers in the pictures were yellow. And when I ran out to my kitchen, my flower was yellow, too. I put it in a vase and took that picture to send to you.” 

Amy scoffs. “Of course you didn’t put it in water immediately.” They’re both grinning at each other, then she looks down at her lap. “You know… Yellow is the first color that I couldn’t really figure out how to tie to Teddy. Not even, like, in a roundabout way. I was still making excuses. Like, _he’s my boyfriend, he makes me happy all the time.”_ She rolls her eyes and shrugs, then looks back up at him seriously. “But not like you did that day.” She shrugs again. “I mean, you were with me when I saw it, so you know when. But I think it was just… ya’know, I was so worried the day before. That we weren’t going to be able to savage our friendship when things were already just so…” 

“Different?” He supplies. She nods. 

“And then… I had feelings for you. And that was so complicated and confusing because, ya’know, I wasn’t sure that you were seeing colors, but Teddy _was_ , so I felt guilty and confused and just…” She swallows, that crease returning between her eyebrows. “But that didn’t make those feelings any less real.” 

Jake almost chokes on his hollow laugh. “Tell me about it.” He stares at his hand, now unmoving. 

“When I heard you laugh on the phone the night before, everything felt okay again.” Her fingers move down to cover his. “I was happy when I heard you laugh, and happy when I woke up and we were still on the phone, and I was happy all the way until I fell asleep the next night, looking over at the flower you picked on my bedside table.” 

“I was happy, too. Happier than I had been in…” He pauses, scoffing quietly and shaking his head. “I don’t even know when.” 

“And then we kind of stopped hanging out after that.” 

He looks up at her. “Yeah. Which was…” Jake’s eyebrows draw together. “Confusing. Because I wanted to be with you—to spend time with you—but it was so hard. And then everything seemed like it just made it harder. It was like no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep my distance from you—”

“Not like I ever asked you to keep a distance—”

“Which didn’t help me on my end. I was trying to…” He sighs. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to mess things up, but just… I could _feel it,_ Amy. Ya’know? Every time I was with you.” 

She laughs softly. “Yeah, I know. Because I was doing a terrible job at pretending I wasn’t interested in you.” 

“I mean, I didn’t think you were interested in me. I just thought you were attracted to me, which—I mean, of course you are.” She rolls her eyes, and he laughs softly. “But seriously. It was always more than that for me, but I didn’t think it was for you. Which was fine. But it was hard for me to be around you. I had to stop drinking around you because—”

“God, I knew that’s what you were doing!” She interrupts. “Until last night.” 

“Until last night,” he repeats. “Indigo.” 

Her eyes flicker to his. “I wanted you to kiss me.” 

His laughter is sort of hollow. “I almost did.” They’re both silent for a moment. He wonders if she’s thinking about the events of the night before the same way that he is. “I saw it when I got home.” He looks down. “Been calling it Blue Number Two.” 

“It makes the sky look different at night,” she adds softly. “I saw it on my walk home.” She shifts her legs in his lap. “It's regret.” 

“I should’ve told you,” he whispers. 

“And I should’ve asked. And maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation eight months after seeing our first color.” 

Jake smiles sadly, squeezing gently where his hand still rests on her thigh. “And that pretty much brings us up to speed.” 

“Well, almost. There’s that new color—”

“In the sky,” they finish together. They share a look. 

“And then this…” Jake twirls her hair around her fingers. “What does this one mean?” 

“Well the one in the sky, that’s purple. Purple corresponds with hope.” 

“That checks,” he laughs softly. 

“This one… Brown—brown, and all the hair colors and skin tones, all that—it’s affection. That’s the last color.” 

He smiles at her, pulling her closer and just breathing her in for a moment. He _definitely_ feels affection for her. He’s surprised he’s only just now seeing brown, because he _has_ felt affection for. He pauses for a moment, his eyebrows pulling together as he realizes something. 

“But there’s one thing I still don’t get,” Jake begins quietly. “What about Teddy? He’s seeing colors, too, right? If you’re choosing me…” He pauses for a moment. “You _are_ choosing me, right?”

She shakes her head, and his heart drops for a second. Her words come out soft. “That’s the thing. I don’t think there’s a choice.” 

Jake’s eyebrows pull together. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean… I don’t think Teddy’s my soulmate.” 

Jake blinks wildly. “You don’t think Teddy’s your…” He laughs. The sound is almost foreign to him, like he’s hearing it from someone else. “That doesn’t make any sense, Amy. Unless he’s—” He stops abruptly, his eyebrows pulling together. 

She nods. “Yep. Unless.” 

“I’m sorry… _What?”_ He laughs. “No. I mean… No. C’mon.” His laughter gets more and more disbelieving. “Teddy sucks, but he wasn’t _pretending._ That’s insane.” His eyes flicker between hers. He’s spent all this time not being with Amy—being completely _miserable—_ because Amy had another soulmate. This wasn’t all just for nothing. “Right?” 

Amy shrugs. “I think I saw a color, and I said that in front of Teddy, and he panicked. I think he was already noticing something between you and me even before we did, before we started seeing colors, and when I saw one and he _didn’t_... He knew. So he lied, and he said he saw colors, too.” 

“No,” Jake repeats. “So I…” He shakes his head. “All that research I did, all that… I’m _not_ the first person to see colors for someone who already has a soulmate?” 

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes remaining on his. “Because you’ve been my soulmate the entire time.” 

“No. Are you sure? You’re _sure?”_

“I know that made you feel pretty special,” she shrugs, a small grin tugging at her lips, “but you’re still special to me, Jake.” He rolls his eyes, and she laughs softly before continuing. “I always saw colors first. And I was kind of suspicious of him, so when I saw yellow…” She shrugs. “I didn’t tell him.” 

This time, his laughter is familiar and affectionate. “You tested him?” 

She shrugs. “He never told me he saw it.” 

“So last night at the bar…” 

“He was taunting you. Because he knew you were seeing colors, but that you hadn’t told me.” She rolls her eyes at the memory. 

“Because if I had told you…” 

“I wouldn’t have still been with him.” She nods slowly. Jake’s staring at her in disbelief still. “I wasted so much time _waiting_ because I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, and I just didn’t want to do the wrong thing, but after last night, I knew. All the little moments that I had noticed and that he’d told me were nothing…” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure that I was right about you last night, but I knew I was right about him. And then he walked out and saw us, and he panicked again, so he proposed. Right outside of Shaw’s.” 

“Wow,” he whispers. 

He pauses for a moment, shaking his head as he thinks about everything Teddy has put Amy through over the past eight months—all the lying, the gaslighting, the pure effort it must have all taken. In a way, he thinks, it’s not that different from what he’s been doing the past eight months—except that Jake was trying to do what he thought was best for her, while Teddy was just trying to _keep her._

“I’m sorry, Ames. He’s the worst.” He shakes his head, his fingers twining with hers. “I just wish we could have figured this out sooner.” 

Her smile broadens, and she squeezes his hand lightly. “Better late than never, right?” 

He shakes his head at her. He couldn’t possibly smile wider if he tried—but his face is still trying. “And to think I was contemplating recreating Taylor Swift’s iconic You Belong With Me music video in the bullpen for you, and it turns out all I had to do was almost kiss you in front of your boyfriend.” 

She laughs. “I mean, definitely still recreate the video.” 

“If you want to see me in a cheerleading uniform, all you have to do is ask, Ames.” 

She adjusts in his arms, shifting closer to him. She tilts her head at him, looking up at him from under her eyelashes in a way that gives him butterflies. “If I asked you to put on a cheerleading uniform, would you?”

Something about her tone has his lips curving upward again. Her legs are tented over his thighs. His hand slips under the blanket and creeps up, fingers splaying against her calf. 

“I would do anything you asked me.” He’s playing into her tone, but he’s never meant anything more.

His hand continues its slow trek up her leg, slipping over her knee. Her hand covers his, effectively stopping his trail. Her eyebrows raise, eyes serious on his. “Anything?” 

He doesn’t move a muscle. 

“Anything,” he breathes.

His eyes are drawn to her tongue as it flicks out across her bottom lip. They flicker back down to their hands when she begins sliding his hand further up her leg. Her lips pull into a sort of self-satisfied grin when he visibly loses his cool a little. She’s teasing him, he thinks. They’ve finished talking about all the colors, and there’s no plan now. 

“I’ll have to remember that.” 

His voice is raspy and restrained. “Are we really doing this, Santiago?” He raises his eyebrows at her, the hand that isn’t underneath the blanket gently making its way to her side. 

Her eyes soften, her hand stopping its pursuit in guiding him up her thigh. “I mean… You only get one soulmate, Peralta.” 

He grins, his face tipping closer to hers. “And it’s you.” 

“And it’s me,” she repeats. She shrugs her shoulders. “I hope you can live with that.” 

He laughs softly. “I can if you can.” 

“Mmm, I think I’ll manage,” she murmurs.

She barely gets the words out before his lips are on hers again. Within minutes, he has her pressed against the mattress, their hands decisively working toward the common goal of seeing who can get who worked up the fastest. She sighs frustratedly when he grasps her wrists, pulling her hands away from him and sliding them up the bed. 

He props himself up on his elbows, maintaining his grip on her wrists as he looks at her. There’s a little frustrated crease between her eyebrows that he has a new appreciation for, and it fades away as confusion overtakes her features at his words. 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“What—what’s my favorite color?” She repeats incredulously, raising an eyebrow at him. He nods. “You want to know what my favorite color is _now?”_

“I was just trying to decide what my favorite color is.” He shrugs, then pauses long enough to give her a soft, slow kiss. “And I wondered what your favorite color is. Ya’know, now that we can see them all.” 

She grins despite herself, tugging her wrists free so that she can reach up and brush her fingers across his face. She smiles against his lips when he leans in to kiss her again. 

“Hmm…” Her fingers rake gently through his hair as she thinks. He hums, his forehead tipped against hers. “I think maybe it’s yellow. The sunflowers, and the happiness, and just… It’s so bright and pretty.” She laughs softly when he interrupts her with a kiss. “What about yours?” 

“Brown,” he responds immediately. 

_“Brown?”_ She scoffs. “There are so many pretty colors, and you choose _brown?_ That’s the one you like most?”

He shakes his head at her. Her eyebrows scrunch together—either with confusion or with frustration that he interrupted what they were doing and still hasn’t gotten back to it, he’s not sure which. His fingers move up to brush her hair out of her face. He twirls a few strands around his fingers before he tucks them behind her ear. 

“I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to see your eyes yet…” He trails off, brushing the back of his knuckles against her cheek as he looks into her eyes. “But they’re way prettier than sunflowers.” 

Amy rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but grin. “You don’t have to try and charm me, I’m already your soulmate.” 

He scoffs quietly. “It’s true, Ames. I had to lie to you for eight months—and it was _hard._ You’re way too smart, I’m never lying to you again.” 

Her soft laughter falls against his lips. “Shut up, Jake.” 

He smiles against her lips as she kisses him, and when she wraps her arms around his neck and shifts until she can roll on top of him, he’s quick to move exactly where she wants him. 

He realizes—not for the first time, and for _far_ from the last time—that Amy’s right. 

He does wish they would have figured all of this out sooner. 

But he gets to see her all in color. He gets to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her… 

And it’s better late than never. 

Being Amy’s soulmate is worth waiting even longer than he’s had to. He can’t think of a period of time that would be too long to endure if he knew that the rest of his life with Amy was at the end of the wait.

But the wait is over—and he’s never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brown - affection, adoration
> 
> (eep hope you guys liked this, it caused me v much stress and i'm so glad it's finally finished. i'm out here looking back on days when i would post multiple long chapters of one fic in a single day and i'm just???? blown away at past me because present me could never rip my hopes and dreams)


	10. rainbow (all the things you've won)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they're so cute i wanna die

“Where are we going?” 

Amy’s got her arms crossed in front of her chest, in full pout mode. Her eyebrows are furrowed adorably. He shakes his head, laughing at his girlfriend for the thousandth time in the past forty-five minutes. 

“I know I don’t have to define the word surprise for you, Amy.” 

This shifts her pout into more of a grimace. “You know how I feel about surprises.” 

He reaches over and disentangles her arms from one another so that he can pull her hand over to the center console, intertwining their fingers. “I know. Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you there _was_ a surprise until today, because I didn’t want you worrying about it.” 

“How long have you been planning it?” 

“A month and a half.” 

“We’ve only been _dating_ a month and half.” 

He grins over at her. “I know.” 

“Oh my…” She shakes her head. “You know, I was doing a pretty good job at not asking about any of this until we crossed into Pennsylvania.” 

He scoffs. “Ames, you asked me where we were going thirteen times before we hit the stateline.” 

She sighs dramatically, pulling her hand back over to her lap and shifting more toward the window. He rolls his eyes, unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face. 

This has, without a doubt, been the best month and a half of his life. 

Dating your soulmate is weird. 

It’s inherently different from dating someone when you aren’t sure if they’re your soulmate, because with this… he knows where it’s going. He knows that at some point, they’re moving in together. He knows that in the distant future, he’s going to be down on one knee, knuckles white as he nervously grips a small, velvet box, even though he knows even now what her answer will be. 

He knows all of these things, and yet they’re still trying to adhere to a timeline like they aren’t aware that their future is irrevocably intertwined. 

Dating your best friend is…

He doesn’t even have the words for it. It’s the best thing that he’s ever experienced. 

He’s constantly learning new things about her, things that he never even realized he didn’t know. He’s filing away these tiny details about her at all times, surprising her when he uses the information he’d quietly taken in. 

They go to see fireworks for the first time in color, and he plans a little surprise picnic for her. He has to search all over to find this particular bottle of wine she’d mentioned once, but it’s completely worth the smile it puts on her face. She shivers, and he pulls out the extra hoodie he’d stowed away for this exact moment. He could have brought her jacket even though she insisted she wouldn’t need it, but he’d noticed that a few of his hoodies had made a home at her place, and she’d frequently wear one of his hoodies instead of her own sweaters when they were just hanging around at one of their apartments—which was completely fine by him. They look better on her, anyway. But her eyes flickered over at him with an understanding warmth, and she snuggled into his arms to watch the fireworks, and they only got distracted by kissing for, like, half the show. 

They still tease each other, and they joke about everything, and they’re no less competitive than they were before. The only difference is that now, the teasing is sandwiched between soft kisses, and the jokes are even more specific, and the competitions end with them in bed half the time. 

He’s in love with her. He’s just waiting for the right moment to tell her. 

And honestly, he doesn’t care if it’s too soon to say it. It’s how he feels, it’s how she _makes him feel_ , and that’s all that matters. He’s spent too long keeping his feelings from her, and he doesn’t intend to make that mistake ever again. 

“Oh my god…” She murmurs. 

He grins, but he keeps his eyes carefully on the road in front of him instead of looking over at her. 

“Jake, is this a museum?” He doesn’t say anything, but his smile grows. “Did you plan a surprise museum date for me?” 

He finally turns to look at her as he pulls into the parking lot, eyebrows raising as he scans the area for a spot. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.” 

“You’re the best.” 

“I know, I know.” 

He barely pulls into the parking spot before she’s unbuckling her seatbelt, excitedly opening the door. He’s laughing to himself as he follows suit, making his way to her side of the car and taking her hand. 

“Why this museum?” She asks, studying him closely. “There are museums closer to us with exhibits that I haven’t seen.” 

This soft, private smile makes its way onto his face. He stops walking, and she turns to look at him curiously. 

“Do you remember that pop-up museum in Albany?” He shrugs. “I did a little bit of research—”

“I have never been more attracted to you.” 

He laughs softly. “And I found out that it was coming to this museum in Pennsylvania. I actually requested this day off for both of us the same day we told Holt we were in a relationship. It’s opening week.” 

“Jake…” 

“I would’ve done opening day, but you know the crowd for an exhibit like _this…”_ He’s laying it on a _little_ thick, but he knows she’s loving every second of it. “It would’ve been insane, and you’ll have a way easier time seeing everything today.” 

“I love you.” 

His grin fades away almost immediately, his eyes big and soft on hers. “What?” 

“I…” She shakes her head. “I love you. And I’m sorry if it’s too soon, or if it’s—”

“I love you, too,” he interrupts. 

“You do?” 

“God, Amy… _Yes._ I love you, just… so much.” 

He grins against her neck when she wraps her arms around him, his arms winding around her waist to hold her close. She pulls back just enough for her lips to find his, and his hands are travelling up her back, pulling her closer like they aren’t in the middle of a parking lot in mid-morning. 

Amy has that effect on him more and more often these days, making him feel like it’s just the two of them, no matter where they are. 

He thinks back on that day at the bar, where Amy skipped some museum exhibit because Teddy didn’t feel like going—and the thought that she’ll never be put in that position again brings a smile to his face that breaks their kiss. 

He laughs softly when he leans his forehead against hers, his fingers coming up to gently brush across her face. 

“I love you so much, too,” she whispers. 

He doesn’t think his heart can get more full. 

But when they separate and interlock hands again, ready to walk to the building, something catches his eye. 

“Ames.” 

He stops walking again, and he hears her soft gasp when she follows his line of sight. 

Stretched out across the entire sky, for as far as he can see, is a rainbow. 

“Oh my god, I forgot…” They both look at each other, breathless smiles on their faces. “It’s so beautiful.” 

It’s _so_ beautiful. 

“Yeah.” He lets go of her hand, instead pulling her into his side for a moment as they admire the first rainbow they’ve ever seen. “But, ya’know… your eyes are still my favorite color.” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile is _way_ prettier than any rainbow could ever hope to be. 

After a few minutes and a selfie that only took a few tries, they’re making their way toward the building again, smiles intact. 

Jake pulls his phone out of his pocket as they’re approaching the building, then laughs softly at the notification he’d just received. 

**boyle:** I SEE A RAINBOW OUTSIDE!!!! IS IT YOU GUYS?????

He laughs softly again, flashing his screen toward Amy. “Boyle knows.” 

**boyle:** DID YOU SAY YOU LOVE EACH OTHER???????

 **boyle:** JAKE IS IT YOUR RAINBOW OR NOT????? I HAVE TO START ORDERING PARTY SUPPLIES

“He’s ridiculous,” Amy laughs, but she stops to press another quick kiss to Jake’s lips. 

**boyle:** I’m gonna assume you’re too busy kissing to reply and just order the supplies anyway. Congratulations!!! Love you guys! 

Jake rolls his eyes, quickly sending a picture of he and Amy in front of the rainbow, his lips pressed to her cheek, the most brilliant smile on her face. He isn’t even sure the photo had time to send before Boyle’s replying. 

**boyle:** OH!!!! MY!!!!! GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **boyle:** I WANT THIS PICTURE ON MY HEADSTONE

 **boyle:** NEVERMIND I’M GETTING IT TATTOOED ON MY CHEST

He shuts off his phone, shaking his head and smiling over at Amy as they finally walk in the door. His eyes are on her the entire time they’re there, all the paintings just a different backdrop for the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, her eyes lighting up in a way that makes him deliriously happy. 

Ten months ago, Jake Peralta could only see gray. 

Even in his wildest dreams, he never would’ve thought that those days, swirling with a dizzying array of black and white, could give way to something so spectacular. 

Once upon a time, Jake Peralta didn’t mind only seeing shades of gray. 

Now he loves colors. 

He loves Amy Santiago. 

And he _loves_ his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rainbow - love
> 
> WE MADE IT. congrats! and thank you! you've made it to the end of my latest fever dream. 
> 
> hope you all enjoyed!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> i promise every chapter isn't this short and chapters 1-5 are completely finished, 6-10 all partially done. ¨̮ 
> 
> thinking i'll post two chapters a week? 
> 
> hit me w your thoughts ¨̮ ¨̮ ¨̮ 
> 
> thanks ily bye


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